Harry Potter and the Golden Sovereign
by Ian Postre
Summary: This is a complete Harry Potter novel. It is a magical adventure, and is set just after Harry Potter and The Chamber of Secrets - this in no way spoils the main official books and it fits in with their order. Plenty of magic and danger. Some readers have said it is like an extra book in the original series! It was written for my niece. My son loves it too.
1. Chapter 1

**Harry Potter and the Golden Sovereign**

As told to Ian Postre

Disclaimer: This story is fanfiction. No financial benefit will be gained from the sharing or reproduction of this story. All characters and worlds described are the property of J.K Rowling. All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author.

The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Chapter 1**

_Through the swirling and dancing darkness of dreams, the boy sits astride a broomstick, which is plummeting at dangerous speed towards the swaying trees of a forest. There is nothing he can do to stop the descent towards certain death. All around him are witches on antique broomsticks of their own, diving and darting around the boy as he dives unwillingly downwards. The ground is looming closer now with tree branches sharp as swords waiting to greet him, like bony hands reaching upwards, reaching towards him. There is nothing the young boy can do, although he is a wizard. Every spell he tries seems to hasten the decline. The spell for making a piece of ground think it is a piece of sky, seems only to send him faster towards certain destruction, down, down, down..._

Harry awoke with a start. More like a bump really. Something had definitely hit him on the head. Relieved though he was to be awoken from a nightmare, his hand had instinctively moved to rub where he was sure something had landed - right on his forehead, directly on his famous scar, as he had slept flat on his back in his giant bed.

He looked over to Ron who was snoring away merrily, a broad smile on his face, his mouth half open in a drool.

The dormitory was otherwise quiet, the fire had long since retreated to embers which gently flickered in the hardly perceptible breeze that seemed to come from nowhere, yet always blows a hint of life into a dying fireplace. Gentle snores, the occasional sigh from Neville. Otherwise all seemed at peace at Hogwarts.

Ron seemed to giggle silently in his sleep, muttering quietly to himself.

"I wonder what HE'S dreaming about," said Harry to himself, continuing to rub the place on his forehead, which was starting to smart. Whatever it was that had hit him had a sharp edge. He had awoken the very moment he would have crashed into the forest in his nightmare. Another second and...Harry searched around the bedclothes, the sheets and the impossibly heavy scarlet bedspread. The search took several minutes as there was rather a lot of bed to investigate. The fact that there was little or no light to see by didn't help a great deal. Harry was about to give up and go back to sleep when he came upon the offending object.

There it was, something under the pillow, glinting insistently. Cautiously, he picked it up and held it to the bare light of the moon. It was a coin, a polished gold coin, shining as if brand new.

Harry strained his eyes in the darkness to see the detail on the coin but it was no good. There simply wasn't enough light in the room. Reluctantly Harry climbed out of the warmth of his bed and tip toed over to one of the tall windows, gently pulling the curtain back, just enough to let in sufficient moonlight to see the coin more clearly.

It was a sovereign - a gold sovereign. "Queen Victoria" Harry mused to himself. "Victoria Regina... 1868. How strange. Now, I wonder where THAT came from?" Harry looked towards the area of ceiling above his bed but there was nothing except a large cobweb bereft of a spider that had departed its home long ago. No sign of any place that a coin could have fallen from.

"It must have been one of the ghosts." Harry whispered. "Always making mischief."

"Or it might be an apport." Harry jumped nearly dropping the coin. Ron was sitting up, yawning and stretching.

"How long have you been awake?" asked Harry with mock indignation.

"Not long" replied Ron. "But your 'tip toe-ing' is loud enough to wake the dead. So, you've found some treasure, eh Harry? Just 'fell into your lap' did it? Very suspicious if you ask me, wandering around on tip toes at midnight with piles of gold coins under a full moon."

"It's only one coin." replied Harry, holding it up for Ron to see.

"All the same," teased Ron, "Very suspicious, if you ask me."

"As a matter of fact," began Harry, "it DID fall into my lap. That is what woke me up. And as a matter of another fact, it happens to be a half moon. Besides, what is an apport?"

Ron smiled proudly. Being from a large wizarding family he was sometimes able to show himself to be knowledgeable than Harry, particularly where magic or the wizarding world was concerned. Of course, thought Ron, Hermione would know even more, but, fortunately for Ron, Hermione wasn't there! As far as Ron was concerned, Hermione would have given an immediate answer, which would have been far too long and too clever by half. So, at that moment, Ron was the best expert they both had.

"Well," said Ron, with a tone of superiority, "An apport is an object that appears out of nowhere. Well, not exactly out of nowhere, it appears out of 'somewhere', but seems to appear out of nowhere by just 'appearing'." Ron was already confusing himself. "It can be a stone, or a key, or a shell, or a ring. A good magician can use a Summoning spell to fetch or send an object er... to or... from somewhere else and make it appear wherever they want it to appear. My dad is often called in to investigate apports, especially if they've been stolen from Muggles. All kinds of criminals from the wizarding world use them to scare the wits out of them. Not to mention it's a useful way of getting a pen or a pencil if you ever need one."

"Just like Dumbledore making rose petals fall from the ceiling on Snape's birthday." suggested Harry.

"Not exactly, ...well, I suppose so" said Ron, who didn't want to lose his newly acquired expert status so quickly. "Anyway, what you have there is most definitely an apport. Someone ... or something... has sent you that coin. They meant you to have it, Harry."

"Well why didn't they just send it by owl?" asked Harry.

"Don't ask me!" retorted Ron, becoming flustered. As far as Ron was concerned , definitions were one thing. Explanations were not something a Weasley could cook up just like that in the middle of the night.

Harry continued to look at the coin, this time inspecting the details more closely. He turned it over in his hand and drew in his breath sharply as he noticed the picture on the reverse side of the coin. "Wow... what can THIS mean ?"

"What is it?" whispered Ron, anxious not to wake any of the others.

"It can't be!" mumbled Harry.

"WHAT can't it be?" Ron was getting impatient.

Ron climbed out of bed and joined Harry at the window leaning over his shoulder, straining his eyes to see the reverse side of the coin. "Blimey!" he cried out. Harry looked at Ron, mouth open in surprise. Ron looked at Harry. Ron was first to speak. "It's you, Harry. It's a golden sovereign with 'Harry Potter' engraved on it, dated 1868 !"

"What's all the noise ?" It was Neville who was now sitting up in bed rubbing his eyes.

"Nothing" said Ron. "Go back to sleep, Neville."

By now, Dean Thomas was stirring as well.

And there under the moonlight was a golden Sovereign, dated 1868, with Queen Victoria on one side, looking royal and miserable and, on the other, smiling, waving with his left hand, was an image of Harry Potter himself. His name was engraves in a semi circle around the top edge as well.

"Is it morning? Why is it still dark if it's morning?" asked Neville sleepily.

"Shut up, Neville!" yawned Ron.


	2. Chapter 2

**Harry Potter and the Golden Sovereign**

As told to Ian Postre

Disclaimer: This story is fanfiction. No financial benefit will be gained from the sharing or reproduction of this story. All characters and worlds described are the property of J.K Rowling. All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author.

The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Chapter 2**

"According to Wilfreda Grimwold in her seminal work, "Apports Down the Aeons," continued Hermione, "a coin is significantly harder to transport using a magical spell than a stone or a crystal due to its metallic nature. According to Grimwold…"

"Grim reading indeed." mumbled Ron between mouthfuls of Cumberland sausage and scrambled egg. The Great Hall was, as usual, filled with the tantalizing odours of a sumptuous breakfast.

Hermione scowled but continued. "According to Grimwold, it takes a particularly focused amount of concentration and effort to send a metallic object from its place of origin right through to its final destination. That leads me to conclude that whoever sent you this coin was no beginner as a wizard." Hermione folded her arms indicating the short lecture was over. Ron breathed a sigh of relief.

"Did it really need so many words to tell us something so simple?" complained Ron.

"Well, if that is going to be your attitude, why don't you go to the library, perhaps, I might suggest, for the first time this term, and look all of this up yourself. It isn't long until end of year exams, you know." Hermione pointed an accusing finger at Ron. "I really don't see how spending most of your time reading old Quidditch programmes is going to help you get into the next year."

"Don't let Ron get you flustered, Hermione." said Harry. "You've been very helpful. So, we can conclude that we are dealing with a talented wizard."

"Or" replied Hermione, "someone employing the talents of a talented wizard."

"Oh, yes! I hadn't thought of that." said Harry. The coin lay before them on the green tablecloth between greasy plates, and pots of blueberry jam and lemon marmalade. It shone brightly under the morning sunrise that hung above the Great Hall.

"There's something else." Hermione took a breath, ready to launch into a further speech.

"Oh please," begged Ron, "surely nothing else!"

"Shut up Ron." said Harry casting him a warning look. "Go on, Hermione, what is it?"

"Well," Hermione continued, "that coin looks brand new. Yet it is dated 1868. Either it has been recently polished, or…"

"…or…" interrupted Harry who had guessed Hermione's conclusion, "…the coin has been apported through time as well as across space!"

"Precisely, Harry." Hermione beamed proudly.

Ron frowned, reaching for a blackberry muffin, his mouth still half full of second helpings of egg and sausage. "What's all this about time and space ? I'm afraid you've both lost me."

"Good." replied Harry ungenerously, "Now, please stop interrupting. Finish your chewing."

Ron growled and reached for some fried bread. Hermione winced at the array of different breakfast items that Ron had managed to cram into his mouth at the same time. "Disgusting!" she said under her breath. Ron grinned through a stuffed mouth.

Harry's brow began to furrow as he considered the facts, picking up the coin and twiddling it lazily between his finger and thumb. "So, this is what we've established so far. We have a golden sovereign, Victorian, dated, 1868. As you might expect, the head side has the face and name of Queen Victoria…"

"Victoria Regina." corrected Hermione..

"Curiously," Harry went on, "the tail side has a picture of me, Harry Potter, engraved on it. I'm smiling and I'm waving. The coin is an apport and has probably been sent by or through a highly skilled wizard, possibly through time as well. The only remaining question is – why ?"

"Well, I know we don't have to study apports until the fifth year according to the syllabus, but I've been doing some further reading on the subject and…"

Ron groaned, then belched, only to be scowled at with such intensity by Hermione, that it forced him to remain quiet and continue munching on his fried bread. Hermione carried on. "And, it is almost unknown in the wizarding world for someone to be able to send an object through time. It's a very tricky business not to mention highly illegal. Someone would have to be very desperate to even attempt it. The dangers of interfering with the course of history are too great. Someone must have a great need. And that need, Harry, must involve you in some way. I'm worried, Harry. I think you should go directly and immediately to Professor Dumbledore and speak to him about it."

"Nonsense." put in Ron, crumbs of muffin and fried bread exploding from his mouth. "We can't go bothering Dumbledore every time someone receives a bump on the head in the night. You know your trouble, You shoudl relax a bit more, Hermione. You worry too much. Far too much."

"Do I really. Well, that's it!" replied Hermione and, with that, she got up and stormed off in a huff.

"Well done Ron, that certainly relaxed her." Harry said as he prepared to go after Hermione. "You'll be sorry when revision time comes around. You'll be glad she isn't relaxing then. Now I'll never find out any more about this wretched coin!"

"Humbug to that." said Ron as he made an angry stab at another enormous Cumberland sausage with his fork.

Neville had been quietly listening to the conversation. He never interrupted Harry, nor anyone else for that matter. So, instead, he rather ridiculously put his hand in the air, hoping Harry would notice. At first Harry was unsure what Neville was doing.

"What's up, Neville ?" asked Harry impatiently looking towards the main doors hoping to catch sight of the departing Hermione.

"Sorry if I'm butting in, Harry. I just wondered... perhaps you might visit Tockley's in Diagon Alley. It's next to Gringotts Bank." Neville looked nervous. Harry liked Neville and nodded reassuringly.

"Tockley's ?" said Harry. "Never heard of it."

"Me neither." said Ron.

Harry smiled encouragingly. "Go on, Neville."

"Well, very few people have. " continued Neville. "I only know about it because my aunt once went there to buy a backwards clock for my uncle. You see, he is always forgetting things and a backwards clock can be very useful for finding things you've lost in the past. I just thought you might get some help at Tockley's. Sorry if I'm interrupting, Harry." Neville stared wide-eyed at Harry, an expectant look on his face.

Harry looked at Neville and smiled again. Neville could be a bit of an effort but actually, Harry thought, he was alright really. "Thanks for the tip, Neville. That's really decent of you."

Neville beamed for the rest of the day.


	3. Chapter 3

**Harry Potter and the Golden Sovereign**

As told to Ian Postre

Disclaimer: This story is fanfiction. No financial benefit will be gained from the sharing or reproduction of this story. All characters and worlds described are the property of J.K Rowling. All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author.

The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Chapter 3**

Although Harry had visited Gringots before, he hadn't noticed the small, badly lit alley that ran down its left side. The walls to Gringotts loomed tall, forbidding, grey and thick. A tiny side street would be easy to miss beside the towering and forbidding front of the wizards' bank. A street lamp and a dustbin almost obscured a view of it from the main street so it wasn't surprising that Harry hadn't seen this narrow side street before. It was hardly a street really, more of a long and very slight gap between the enormous, ten feet thick wall of Gringotts down one side and the backs of leaning buildings along the other. It reached a dead end some way off at its far end. They'd asked several people directions to it before a short and rather croaky witch had pointed it out to them. Ron was more interested in spending precious time at Gambol and Japes and had a long list from his brothers of recently imported and legally dubious jokes to look out for. They'd agreed to meet in half an hour at the Leaky Cauldron.

Harry stepped around the dustbin, which automatically opened its rusty lid like a large mouth, as if it were expecting something to be thrown into it. Harry was sure he heard a snort of disappointment when nothing was forthcoming and the tin lid slammed sulkily shut. The alley was so narrow that Harry had to edge along sideways, his stomach brushing against the opposite wall. Up ahead he could see an old, wooden sign hanging above the doorway of the only shop in the alley. He could just make out the name which was neatly painted in faded black letters alongside a picture of a Half Hunter pocket watch which, strangely had about five hands drawn upon it. The sign read: "Tockley's".

After five minutes of sidling along, Harry began to puff and pant. The alley sides seemed to be narrowing and it took all of his puff to gain even a few inches towards to the shop. As if to compound this problem, the shop appeared to be getting no nearer –no nearer at all ! And then entrance to Diagon Alley seemed to be no further away!

After fifteen minutes of what felt like difficult, horizontal climbing, Harry was about to give up. He decided on one final push for his destination. He strained and squeezed, groaning and sweating with the effort until, with one huge thrust, suddenly, there it was! Harry struggled with all his might at last managing to turn around in the narrow space to find his nose pressed hard against the glass shop front. A small sign in the window on a bed of black velvet cloth read as follows:

"_Samuel P. Tockley: precision, fine wizarding hourglasses, precious temporal artifacts, perpetual motion machines, and interesting chronological mechanisms. Browsers not welcome. By prior appointment only. Closed until last Spring.."_

"Damn!" cursed Harry. "Closed."

At that moment, a high pitched bell sounded that simultaneously echoed as the low chime of a grandfather clock, and a short man in a smart, tight fitting black suit with greased-back grey and yellowing hair, wearing a pair pince-nez spectacles poked his head out of the opening doorway, looked squarely at Harry, smiled, and said: "Goodbye, thank you for calling, it was a pleasure to do business with you." And with that, he closed the door behind him, this time the grandfather chimes sounding before the tinkle of the bell.

Harry stood, squashed and alone in the tiny street. Determined not to have had such a wasted journey and not relishing the prospect of a return journey back into Diagon Alley so soon, Harry squeezed with all of his might along to the door, his nose dragging ungraciously along the window glass. He knocked firmly upon the front door. It seemed like an age had passed before the same man pulled open the door, sniffed the air three times, looked directly at Harry and said. "Oh, it's you again. Is there something else you wanted?"

"I beg your pardon?" Harry replied. "There isn't something else - this is my first time."

The man stared sternly over his pince-nez spectacles, frowned and said: "First time ? First time ? But I am sure you were just here. I am certain we just said goodbye. We did just say goodbye, did we not ?"

"I think _you_ did, to me, sir." Harry forced a weak smile.

"Well, " the man's frown turned into a beam, "there you are then. We've said our goodbyes so I suppose, you'd better come in then." He held the door open with a bow and Harry squeezed past him, into the shop beyond, relieved at last to be out of the uncomfortably narrow alley.

At first sight the shop looked like an ordinary watchmaker's. There were timepieces on shelves, in cupboards and on tables. Clocks of all shapes and sizes adorned the wall space, hung from little metal hooks, and occupied all available corners. Harry even recognised muggle watches lying on a bench in the glare of a bright green spotlight. At the very centre of the room was a large oak workbench with a desk lamp where the shopkeeper obviously did his precision work.

It was only when Harry had accustomed himself to the dim light of the shop that Harry began to notice how strange some of these timepieces really were. There was a tall grandfather clock where the numbers were in reverse with a six in roman numerals on the top and a twelve at the bottom. Many of the watches were ticking, but backwards. They seemed to suck in the regular sound of their ticks. As a cuckoo clock chimed its birdlike inhabitant flew out of the open doors of the house and flapped around the shop fluttering close to the ceiling, then dived and pecked at the poor shopkeeper's balding head. "Bother" he cried. "Get off, will you get off me!".

Harry stood by, helpless. It was all Tockley could do to throw up his hands to protect himself. Then, expertly, as if he had done it numerous times before, he counted to four, then suddenly reached upwards and grabbed the offending bird, its tiny mechanical wings flapping feebly in his iron grasp, as he carried it across the room, stuffing the tiny, struggling bird through the doors of the clock's house, fixing them firmly closed with a piece of sticking tape. "There." said Tockley. "Must look at that soon."

Tockley turned towards Harry, and straightened his tie and jacket. "Very sorry about that. Should have been ready for that given that it has already happened in five minutes time. Now, where will I be ? You must have been Harry Potter. That's unless you haven't introduced yourself yet."

"Eh, what? Sorry?" Harry found it almost impossible to follow what the man was saying. "Yes, I'm Harry, Harry Potter. Pleased to meet you, sir."

Tockley beamed and held out his hand, which Harry warily shook. "The name is Tockley. Or it will be. Or perhaps it was. Samuel P. Tockley. I used to know what the 'P' stands for, been trying to recall it for weeks, years perhaps, but I won't remember it for at least five years ago."

Harry stood, open-mouthed and very lost. Tockley sighed and smiled a warm, sympathetic smile.

"You will have to forgive me – unless you already have - but all of these years working with time will make me a trifle confused and confounded, if you understood what I am going to mean. Time you see, doesn'r only run in a line. But no more of that. You are not a chronologist. Now what was it that I will be able to do for you ?"

Dazed, Harry spoke slowly and carefully. "I wonder if you might give me some advice, Mr. Tockley." Harry took out the golden sovereign and held it out for Samuel Tockley to examine. "It's about this coin that I received under strange circumstances. I think it has traveled through time. And I think that I was meant to receive it."

Tockley took the coin carefully and studied it, pulling out a large eyeglass from his waistcoat pocket, which he used to examine it. For several minutes he squinted at the coin, from different angles and distances, sighing, and muttering to himself. "Yes…indeed…mmm….interesting…oh good, jolly good….mmm….well, well." Then he looked up squarely at Harry and said: "Of course, quite natural, quite natural. Perhaps if you give me the coin, I'll have a look at it."

Harry was very confused. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Tockley. You already have the coin!"

Tockley looked hypnotized for a moment. Do I?" he asked. Then he noticed the coin in his hand, almost jumping in the air with surprise. "Good Heavens, where did that come from? Never mind, I'd better take a good look at this, didn't I?"

"Yes sir, if you wouldn't mind." Harry said, even more bemused than before. Perhaps, he thought, Mr. Tockley had gone mad.

Mr Tockley repeated the whole process of looking at the coin through his eye glass and, after another ten minutes, looked up again, this time his face full of pained concentration as if he were making a superhuman effort to hold on to the present moment and said: "Very well made, my boy. Very precise and very rare. Where will you, I mean, where did you get it from?"

Harry saw no reason to be secretive with this kindly, if somewhat eccentric man. "It just fell on my head one night as I was sleeping. It arrived from nowhere. I believe it to be an apport that has traveled through time."

"Nonsense." snapped Tockley. "Stuff and nonsense. What we have here is a golden sovereign. It fell on your head one night. It arrived from nowhere. I believe it to be an apport that has traveled through time."

Harry was becoming flustered. "Yes, Mr. Tockley. You must be right. What I would like to know is – why? Why was it sent to me ? What am I supposed to do with it ?"

"Good question," Tockley replied, continuing to study the coin, walking across to his work bench in order to examine it even more closely." Again he muttered to himself and, after several more minutes, turned to Harry with a triumphant look on his face. "This coin, is no ordinary coin. This golden sovereign represents the means for you to answer the call of the person or persons unknown who have sent it to you."

"I don't quite understand." said Harry.

"Oh, you will, old man, you will." Tockley replied. "Someone from the Past, from the year 1868 to be exact, has fashioned this magical artifact as a means to summon you, Harry Potter. This is no easy thing to achieve. I will guess during my next statement that this must be for a very important reason. Someone is calling you to travel back to 1868 to help them, I supposed, in some urgent and important matter that only you, Harry Potter, will be able to help them with. Now, you have the coin. Splendid! It is the first step."

"Then what is the next step?" asked Harry, " What else do I need to answer this call ? And who is calling me ? And why ? And why am I the person they are summoning ?"

Tockley uttered a shrill laugh. "Questions ! Questions ! Too many questions and not enough answers ! The answers lie in the future. To claim the answers from the future you'll have to fetch them from the past! You have the coin. Now, let me see…"

Samuel Tockley began to rummage in a large open chest at the back of the shop. "Now where will I lose it ? Where did I put it? Ah, there it was!" He pulled out all kinds of strange contraptions and mechanisms. One looked like an iron birdcage with strange globes of colored light buzzing around inside it. "No, not that." muttered Tockley to himself. Cogwheels, clock faces, eagle feathers, a bell jar of strange luminous green and red liquid that seemed alive, all came out of the chest, until Tockley uttered another triumphant cry. He turned towards Harry clutching a large obsidian box. It was square and smooth on all sides – a perfect cube, about the size of a large person's hand. "Here we are ! You have the coin, Harry, and here is the slot to put it in! "

Harry noticed that on one side of the strange looking box was, indeed a small slot, about the same size as the coin that Tockley placed back in Harry's palm. Harry wasn't sure why but the box gave him a queer sensation of fear along the back of his spine. He shivered.

"Now, Harry.." began Tockley. "I haven't done this for over fifty years. Or was it in fifty years time ? Are you ready to respond to the call.?"

"I am not sure I understand." Said Harry.

Tockley drew his brows together in an effort to concentrate. "My boy, " he said. "This is an obsidian Box of Time. It was fashioned a long time ago, though possibly a long time ahead, by the great magician Suliman Belzidor. It provides the means to travel along the very corridors of time ! The coin is far more than just a coin. Clearly, with your image on it, it is meant for you to use it to answer the call of someone in the year 1868, who, for reasons yet to make themselves known, urgently requires your assistance. Now, are you ready to answer the call?"

"Wait a minute." said Harry. "Will I be able to get back?"

Samuel Tockley laughed a somewhat manic laugh. "Get back? Why, of course! You have the coin! And a Box can send you whence and fetch you hence!"

"Eh?" Harry ventured.

"Hither and thither, my boy!" Tockley smiled and indicated the box. "To quote a well told tale, there and back again!"

Harry didn't feel very reassured. He looked at the golden sovereign and something urgent in it seemed to be pulling him towards the box. It felt like a urgent call of need. And, despite his concerns, there was something friendly about it, something benevolent. If Harry could put a name to it, it felt like a call from a family member.

Samuel Tockely raised the box in his hands and stepped towards Harry.

"Carpe diem, young fellow. Carpe diem!" Tockley almost shouted.

Carpe de what?" said Harry. "I'm afraid I don't know that spell, Mr Tockley."

Tockley uttered a wild laugh. "No spell, my boy! It is Latin! Seize the day! Seize the moment! Will you ? before the moment is too far gone to be seized?"

Tockley offered the box. Harry felt torn. This was madness, he thought. Perhaps he should go and find Ron. But then the coin seemed to pull him even more urgently, as if telling him that, if he didn't grasp this moment, terrible consequences might result.

"Well?" said Samuel Tockley. "Are you ready to respond to the call?"

Harry gulped. "I think so."

Tockley giggled in anticipation. "Of course you are. You are Harry Potter! Well, no time to lose! Insert the coin in the slot !"

Harry felt his hand reach forward, with the sovereign in his hand as Tockley held out the box towards him, the slot facing the coin. It was black, a perfect rectangle. Closer they came together, coin and slot. Harry felt his hand and his fingers beginning to shake. He was scared.

Then the shadow of the black box was upon the coin, upon his hand. At almost the same instant his fingers had inserted the gold coin into the slot, he heard a loud popping noise, followed by a sucking sound and, in an instant, Harry felt himself being drawn into the blackness of the slot which grew and grew until the shop around him seemed to shrink and contract, until he was enveloped in darkness. He felt himself pulled, dragged with enormous force through the ever-growing blackness of the rectangle. It was a blackness he had never known before; a darkness that even shadows would be afraid of. Harry shivered. Had he been drawn into a trap by something or someone evil, perhaps by Voldemort himself ? Harry felt himself falling. It was too late to go back now. Then, as if he'd never been in the room, Harry Potter and the obsidian box had vanished, leaving Samuel P. Tockley standing transfixed in the middle of the room. At the very moment Harry disappeared Tockley cried out "Percival ! The 'P' stands for Percival! Now, where was I ? Oh yes, it must be time to open the shop!"


	4. Chapter 4

**Harry Potter and the Golden Sovereign**

As told to Ian Postre

Disclaimer: This story is fanfiction. No financial benefit will be gained from the sharing or reproduction of this story. All characters and worlds described are the property of J.K Rowling. All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author.

The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Chapter 4**

Ron had been in this situation before; waiting for Harry, unsure whether to be annoyed or worried.

Ten minutes was acceptable, half an hour was mildly annoying, but an hour was stretching even Ron's patience, despite the enticement of another butterbeer. Butterbeer is a wonderful, moreish drink. A second one can be as good as the first. But a third within an hour, and the sweetness starts to become noticeable. Part of Ron wanted to know what Harry was up to, for Harry seemed to have a knack for attracting excitement and adventure. Another part was worried for his friend and wished that they were sitting together in the Leaky Cauldron making jokes about barrel-shaped wizards.

The Leaky Cauldron was as crowded and busy as ever. It seemed particularly full of a coven of rowdy witches though this might have something to do with the annual conference of the International Guild of Broomstick Manufacturers. Everywhere were witches and wizards making their secret sign of Guild recognition, which, much to the amusement of the rest of the wizarding world, everybody else knew about. It was hardly surprising given the sign involved rubbing ones' left eyebrow furiously and coughing loudly three times. Ron was becoming tired and bored of listening to an argument taking place at the table next to his between a very large and particularly ancient wizard and an equally plump pair of witches with strong Welsh accents.

"I tell you the Nimbus has never realised its full design potential. The polish used has always limited its aerodynamic possibilities!" said the huge wizard with an air of superiority.

"Nonsense!" replied the first witch. "Look boyo, it isn't the polish that's the problem, it's the overall shape of the thing. Designed by a man for men. You can tell a witch was never allowed a test flight. Half an hour on a windy day and you're as sore as a..."

Three loud, throaty coughs and a furiously rubbed left eyebrow interrupted the witch as a third, even bigger woman squeezed onto the table beside her two companions. The man smiled in what Ron thought was an overly slimy way. "Ah, Brenda! A pleasure to see you here ! I've been looking for you everywhere !"

Brenda sniffed offhandedly. "Looking for me ? More like looking for my bag of galleons, you old villain! Well, I tell you now, I'm not taking one single, coin out of Gringots until you give me a full refund on those dreadful Comet-Runner Two's you forced on me last year. Not one of them is even remotely straight!"

The old wizard licked his lips then wiped them on his not too clean sleeve before speaking. "But Brenda dear, we agreed, 'sold as seen'! And I did throw in a gorgeous half litre of newt brandy - forty years old, I say, forty years old, Brenda!"

"Well, you know where you can shove that watered down wee!" she replied angrily.

From there on the discussion degenerated into an insult slinging match that had even Ron blushing. Ron looked at his watch and frowned as he realised how late in the afternoon it was. He decided it was definitely time to go and find Harry.

Fifteen minutes later, in the fading light of an increasingly breezy afternoon, tired of waiting at the corner of Gringots, Ron decided to fetch Harry from Tockleys. If they were any later getting back to Hogwarts, they'd be arriving in an already lit fireplace, not to mention a lot of trouble with Professor McGonagall. He made his way quickly along the darkening alley. Within a few seconds he was stuck fast. The increasing narrowness of the alley had taken Ron by surprise. There was certainly no going forward. Ron tried with a huge effort to extract himself from this unexpected and tight situation and, with an almighty pull, he managed to retreat a few yards back along the pavement. Ron breathed a sigh of relief resolving never to drink three butterbeers in so short a space of time again, hoping there wasn't a queue for the lavatories at the Leaky Cauldron.

"It's no use trying to go up there. There's only Tockley's the Time Merchant." Ron turned to see a road sweeper, his broom dancing merrily before him, who had stopped to watch him struggling back towards the haven of Diagon Alley.

"I need to get to Tockley's." replied Ron. "My friend is still there and I think he's forgotten the time."

"More than likely." said the old man, with a friendly smile. "It's easy to forget the time at Tockleys. 'S'not a place to spend too much time in, if you ask me. But I think you must be mistaken about yer' friend."

The man's broom tapped impatiently on the ground waiting for its master to cease dawdling and catch up.

"Why's that ?" asked Ron, who was starting to become more than a little worried.

The road sweeper sighed, tired after a long day. "Well, you see, Tockley's has been closed since last October. Won't be open for at least another three months."

And with that, he whistled to his broom which jerked into action and skipped ahead along Diagon Alley, doing more skipping and jigging than useful sweeping if the truth be told.

Ron frowned. Now he really was starting to worry.

"Harry?" he said, half to the empty, evening street half, to himself. "Harry bloody Potter! What are you up to now?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Harry Potter and the Golden Sovereign**

As told to Ian Postre

Disclaimer: This story is fanfiction. No financial benefit will be gained from the sharing or reproduction of this story. All characters and worlds described are the property of J.K Rowling. All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author.

The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Chapter 5**

Harry felt as if every part of him was being squeezed and squeezed. He'd experienced the rather nasty sensation of being sucked through the impossibly small slot of the obsidian Box of Time where he had entered a realm of utter darkness. Within a few moments he had been forced to shut his eyes for this was a darkness which was so utterly black that it was as blinding as any white light. Harry felt himself floating forward in space at what seemed like enormous speed one moment, and hardly any movement at all the next. There was also no sound of any kind; Harry couldn't even hear his own breathing, though he could sense the frightened beat of his heart against the wall of his chest and that gave him an enormous sense of relief

As he slowly became accustomed to this strange and forbidding place, Harry gave himself up to being carried along to who-knows-where and the sense of travel sickness which came from being tugged and pushed along began to slowly leave him. He found that if he kicked his feet or flailed his arms, the air around him, which was quite breathable if a little stuffy, responded turbulently, buffeting him to and fro. On more than one occasion Harry thought he might be sick. So, in the end, Harry stayed as still as he could, resigned to a faint hope that he was journeying to _somewhere_ and fending off a growing fear that he was to spend the rest of his life floating helplessly in this dark world. Perhaps ten minutes passed, perhaps a few hours; it was hard to tell. Harry was becoming scared. "It's no good being scared." he told himself. "Being afraid doesn't get you anywhere."

As he drifted along in the gloom, Harry took out his wand holding it out before him. He concentrated and, though he couldn't actually hear even a hint of his own voice, he shouted: "Lumos!" Not even the faintest flicker of light went forth from the wand.

It was only then that he noticed that he was still clutching the gold sovereign in the palm of his hand. Harry opened his fingers, careful not to drop the coin. As soon as his fingers opened, a golden light radiated from the coin and, like a solitary candle alight on the font of a vast church, the entire surroundings were suddenly lit up by the powerful rays coming from this tiny, golden sovereign.

Harry looked around him and gasped. He was travelling along a huge, circular tunnel, which was at least ten times bigger than the Great Hall at Hogwarts, the walls of which were made of a strange, liquid-like substance that was constantly forming into a thousand different pictures, some frozen, some moving with life. Yet the pictures had a peculiar quality to them. As soon as Harry let his gaze rest for more than a few seconds on any one of the images, he felt as if he were being drawn into it. It took hold of his attention, seeming to grow in size. Harry found himself focusing on a picture of a black cat, its vivid, intelligent green eyes staring out at him.

Before Harry realised what was happening, the picture expanded and began to envelop him until... there he was - standing on a country lane, surrounded by small hedged fields, rain pouring down and the cat rushing along the narrow, winding road stopping at regular intervals to look back at Harry, as if beckoning him to follow it. All the while the scene grew in clarity and depth, until Harry could even feel the fresh chill of a cold wind on his face. He rushed up the lane after the cat not realising that the more he entered the picture, the more he began to forget about the tunnel of pictures, the black box of time, and even the golden sovereign. He felt the strongest urge to follow the cat over the summit of a steep hill, but a voice inside him told him to take care. It was a strong voice, though it was no more than a whisper on the wind, almost fierce, yet somehow a voice Harry knew meant him well. Take care! The cat turned around and looked at Harry, washing its paw, waiting for him to follow. The sun warmed him and the whole scene was one of welcome, a place that seemed to promise to take all of his worries and cares away... A tear rolled down from his left eye onto his cheek. His heart was filling up with an urge to follow that cat. The impossible began to seem possible if only… _I just need to follow the cat, to see where it is going..._

"Be careful, Harry!" It was the whisper again. A familiar voice, though he couldn't tell who it was.

Harry turned away.

In an instant the entire scene dissolved around him and Harry found himself back in the Tunnel of Pictures. He wiped the tears from his eyes and looked at the wand, which he now held in his right hand, the gold sovereign still in his left. As he floated along, Harry determined not to look at any more of the pictures that competed so strongly for his attention. Harry felt sadder than he had ever felt in his life.

As he muttered these thoughts to himself, Harry noticed that the speed he was being carried along at was increasing rapidly. In only a few seconds the pace had quickened so much that the wall of pictures was now only a blur of colour. Harry looked up ahead. In the distance he could see a rectangular shape of light that was tearing towards him. Of course, he was really tearing towards it! Larger and quicker it grew, as Harry braced himself for what he was certain would be a terrible impact. The light grew brighter and brighter, as Harry flew nearer and nearer. As he was engulfed in the vast whiteness Harry was sure he heard a howl of anger that echoed away almost as quickly as it had sounded. And then... he was through! Harry Potter tumbled out of an obsidian Box of Time that, he supposed, stood on a wooden, dusty floor. He was pitched forward at such great speed that he rolled over five times before coming to rest hard against an old, frayed leather armchair, which took most of the impact.

Harry lay still, still clutching his wand, convinced he must have broken every bone in his body. He only moved when he heard a voice, deep and serious, but with a friendly warmth to it.

"Good. You made it. Well done. The Tunnel of Time is never the easiest of routes."

Slowly Harry turned to face a white haired old man, with grey beard so long that it almost reached down to the man's knees. The man smiled. "Of course. I knew you would. You must be Harry Potter," said the old man, staring at Harry, as if fascinated by a museum exhibit or a painting in a gallery. He looked hard at Harry, his piercing blue-green eyes, travelling around his face, then alighting on his scar. "Yes. YES! The boy who will live!"

"Who are you?" asked Harry, getting up and then stepping backwards a few steps in the face of this powerful gaze.

The room was small, no larger than his bedroom at the Dursleys. It must have been a workshop of some kind and the various clocks and timepieces strewn about reminded Harry of Tockley's. However, there was something wrong here. As Harry looked around the tiny room he began to notice what a terrible state it was in. A table had been upended, a chair lay smashed in a corner, several clocks were broken and papers lay strewn everywhere. Harry turned back to the elderly man, noticing for the first time a red cut above his left eye and several bruises on his face. The man scratched his wrinkled brow and sighed. "I am afraid you find me in somewhat 'reduced' circumstances, as you can see. But that, of course, is why I have invited you here."

"Invited?" said Harry. "I don't understand".

The man smiled again and pointed to the golden sovereign that was just glinting between two fingers of Harry's hand. "The coin, Harry. The coin was the invitation. I thank you for accepting it. Of course I always knew you would."

"Who are you ?" asked Harry. "And where are we ?"

The old man laughed, a laugh that Harry found surprisingly hale and hearty for a man who looked so old and disheveled. "Welcome, Harry Potter, to the year 1868. You are in London, my boy. And I ? Who am I ? I am Simon Potter. Your great, great uncle."

Harry gasped. "My great, great uncle? And you sent the coin? But, why?"

Simon Potter screwed up his face and his eyebrows almost touched. "Why, indeed. An important task, I believe. Something vital, crucial even. And it seems it has to be you, my boy."

Harry was lost. "Task? Me?"

"Yes, Harry. You. I believe I am right in this. This vision was one of the strongest in my entire life; the pull was unmistakable, the coin easier to come by than it should have been. All of the omens were good. And, besides – here you are." Simon gestured towards Harry.

"What I don't understand," began Harry, "is why you have gone to all this trouble. Why me? I'm a student at Hogwarts; about to go into my third year. I know a bit of magic, some defensive stuff, a few charms, but not exactly a great deal. Why call me for some important task?"

Simon frowned, but only for a few moments before his lined face creased into an almost mischievous grin. "Harry, I don't know. I rarely know why in relation to these matters."

"What do you mean?" asked Harry, adding a frown of his own.

"I am a seer, an occasional oracle. I see truth that is rooted in what is to come in Time. I've also been called a truth seer, or soothsayer in the old language. I'm a prophet. Sometimes it feels like a gift, often more like a curse. There are many things I cannot see, and a few that come to me as clearly as I see you before me now. Harry, to know what is going to happen is not always a good thing, but I have to admit it has saved my life on more than one occasion, especially in my dealings with the Order of the Eagle..."

"The Order of the Eagle? What's that?" asked Harry.

"More of that later" continued Simon. "Harry. I saw in a vision you finding that coin. I saw your visit to Samuel Tockley. The Tockley's are a very old, if equally eccentric family, some would say they went mad generations go – crazy geniuses of chronological magic - who have concerned themselves for centuries with all things relating to Time. Time, Harry, is the most troublesome and dangerous branch of magic. I have few dealings with those who send or call things through the years, let alone the wholly precarious business of dispatching or summoning a wizard along the tunnels of Time. A Muggle would never survive the journey, but a wizard can do it, with the right magical aids. The Tockleys have safeguarded those precious artifacts for centuries and few in the wizarding world know about them. I believe that Samuel Tockley, who owns the shop in your own age, is one of those particular geniuses of the family who is also a bit too reckless and eccentric for his own good. In this particular case it has served us well, and here you are."

"But I still don't understand..why did you call me here?"

Simon paused, staring into the distance over Harry's right shoulder as if he were seeing pictures hanging in the air. Then his eyes met Harry's and he spoke calmly and with confidence. "Harry. I called you here because I saw myself doing it."

Harry hadn't expected a response like that. "What?"

Simon had a vacant look on his face when he next spoke."I prophesied it. I saw the future. In that future I saw myself sending you an apport to your time and bringing you here. It was such a strong prophecy, so rare – perhaps once in a life time. In the art of future seeing, we call it an _Actus Compellari_ – a prediction that must be realised. It becomes a moral duty for the seer to fulfill it. I saw it and it then became a necessity, but the reasons for it have not yet been revealed to me. I am sorry Harry, if in bringing you here I have put you or your loved ones in any peril, but here you must be, for there is a task I need your help with and it must be you. Why it must be you is the thing I cannot explain. The future revealed to me that you are the one person in the world, across all ages in our line of Time, that can possibly achieve this task. And all I know is that if you do not succeed in this, then happenings in your own age will play out very differently."

Harry began to feel scared, a similar feeling creeping along his spine as when he had first heard of the Chamber of Secrets. "You mean, if I don't succeed in whatever this task is, then my own time might be very different?"

"Yes Harry. I see more shadows than light when I look there, I am afraid to admit. Yet, you are here and it is now." Simon smiled again.

"Sorry?" said Harry, struggling to follow.

"It is a saying, a kind of credo of Prophecy. We can talk all day and night, we can speculate about why things turn out the way they do. You are here and it is now. Sometimes that is all we can hold onto."

Now it was Harry's turn to stare at Simon Potter. His great great Uncle. Simon returned his gaze and Harry saw a glint of recognition in those eyes, a mutual recognition for something in those eyes were Potter eyes, his dad's eyes, eyes he remembered from a photograph of James and from the Mirror of Erised. It was a firm gaze, sincere, strong, with an undertone of mischievous. This man was an ancestor, a Potter and, if he could trust him, this man not only needed his help, but seemed to be suggesting that failure in a task might jeopardise his own world, his own time.

Harry took a breath. "Alright. What's the task? What I am supposed to do?"

Simon sighed, turned away for a moment, then turned back to Harry, his eyes now glistening, a warm, concerned look on his tired-looking face. For a moment, Harry was reminded of Albus Dumbledore.

"Harry, I don't know."

"You don't know?" said Harry, perplexed.

"I don't know. All I saw in the future – and as I have said, it was one of the most powerful _Actus Compellaris_ I have ever experienced, and I was bound to follow it. It felt entirely trustworthy. So, I procured a temporal apport and sent it to you. Then all I had to do was wait. And here you are."

"Harry frowned. " But if you can see into the future, surely you can tell me what happens next?"

Simon laughed then – it was an enormous belly laugh, the kind of laugh that is infectious. But Harry was so very concerned, frightened even at what he was hearing, that the laughter just added to his feeling of rising fear. Simon, quickly recovered.

"I'm sorry Harry. Forgive my laughter. But can you imagine it? How it would be if a person could predict in every detail everything that would happen in the next minutes, hours, days. You are walking in the corridors or Hogwarts with your school mates and you know everything they are going to say next, every gesture, every move they are going to make. Harry, such detailed prophecy would drive you insane. You'd never be able to hold onto the present moment. Something in the nature of prophecy itself seems to protect us from that. We are given glimpses, more or less powerful hints and, occasionally a vision rises up, as clear as a living picture or something more far flung – it can be days, weeks, even decades ahead. But the detail of NOW and the immediate times are clouded to me – shrouded I think to keep us from going mad. In the end, if you concern yourself too much with Time, you'll lose the ability to hold onto the present. There's more than one prophet raving in the beds at St Mungo's or even Bedlam – poor souls if they end up in the latter. You are here and it is now. All I know is you need to be here, and I beg you trust me on that. Perhaps your immediate task is to find out what your task is.

"Oh. Great" said Harry, under his breath. Simon laughed again, a gentle chuckle of sympathy.

Harry stared around the room as if he might find at least a clue there. All he saw was mess and chaos. He turned back to his great, great uncle. "Simon. I need to ask a few questions."

Simon Potter nodded. "Ask and I'll answer what I can."

"First question," began Harry, "where exactly are we?"

"In London, not far from Marble Arch." Simon replied.

"Is time passing in my own Time, while I am here?"

"Indeed it is," said Simon, "It always keeps exact pace. Time tries to keep balance. But it also tries not to get involved."

"Harry frowned. "You talk about Time as if it were a person."

"In all of my years as a truth-seer, and my dealings with Time, it certainly seems as if Time is a being rather than a set of rules. But if it is a being, I've never met him, or her, or it! But yes, Time seems like a fairly gentle soul to me, a soul who prefers balance and likes things to be set to rights. I think Time has created prophets to try to restore balance when things go askew. We see so we can warn. Often that power has been misused. In the long run, prophecy, I think, has done more good than harm."

"Next question. Will I be able to get back... to my own time?" Harry asked.

Simon smiled and opened his hand and pointed to an oak desk in the corner of the room. On the empty surface the golden sovereign appeared. He hadn't noticed it vanish from his own grasp. "Keep that coin close Harry and it should get you home safely. The Box of Time you used to get here also exists in secret in this time and I happen to know where it is."

Harry looked at the coin, walked over to the desk, picked it up and then pocketed it. He then turned back to Simon. "Well" said Harry, "We are here and it is now! Let's get going." Harry started towards to door that, he presumed, led into Victorian London. He stopped and turned towards Simon, who hadn't moved.

"Ah. Problem there, I'm afraid. " Simon was silent.

"What do you mean 'Ah'?" Harry was beginning to get worried again. "What problem?"

"Shake my hand Harry." Simon stepped forward, proffering a long-fingered, wrinkle-skinned hand.

Harry paused only for a moment then reached with his own hand to shake that of his ancestor. His heart skipped a beat and he jumped back a little as his fingers and palm went through thin air. "That Harry, is why I can't step out of that door with you..."

"Then how … how are we...?"

"It's an old trick Harry, and I can't maintain it for too much longer. In this age, the spiritualists call it astral projection. It is the ability of a wizard or witch to project their soul image for short periods of time outside of their bodies. You become a kind of ghost and, if you are skilled at it, you can do what is called "manifestation" - you can be seen and heard. You can even move objects but it takes enormous effort."

"But why not just apparate?" asked Harry.

"It isn't easy to apparate when you are being kept prisoner in an underground cell, who knows where, surrounded by a myriad protection spells." Simon sighed a long, almost defeated sigh.

"You are being kept a prisoner?" Harry was now very frightened indeed. He was alone, over a hundred years away from his own Time, his friends, from Hogwarts and Dumbledore, even from Privet Drive and the Dursleys, and he was being given a task that the giver couldn't even explain and who was communicating with him like a ghost, trapped in a place that even he had no idea of the location.

"What if I refuse ?" groaned Harry. "What if I say no? What if I asked you to tell me where the Box of Time is and just let me go home?"

Again Simon sighed. "Harry, if you choose to do that I would not blame you. But please listen to one last thing. Harry, you are a Potter. The Potters were always a solid, determined line, Gryffindors in the main, once or twice a Ravenclaw or a Slytherin at school. A Potter doesn't shy away from a needed task, a task that may be greater than his own fears or needs. A Potter can rarely refuse an adventure either! But hear this Harry: You are free to leave here whenever you wish. I cannot tell you where the Box of Time is in case we are being overheard..." Simon looked nervously around, as if, wherever he was imprisoned, he was being spied upon. A moment later, Harry twitched as he heard Simon's voice whispering clearly in his head. "The Box of Time is in the safe hands of Enrico Rose of the Ruby Lou Pub at London Docklands. He will give it to you Harry." Simon continued aloud. "But know this Harry. The prophecy that was given to me," Simon now held out his hand and a spherical ball of light appeared in it, the size of a crystal ball, "hints that an entirely different story will unravel and the Boy Who Will Live will become the Boy Who May Live. Oh, I must go, Harry. Sorry! They are coming..."

The ball of light suddenly vanished from Simon's hand and he whipped his head quickly to the right, wherever he was, and Harry heard the distant unlocking of bolts and the sound of an angry, gruff voice: "Potter, what are you up to in there you old fool. Think we are stupid oo something...?"

Simon Potter turned back to Harry, a warm but urgent look on his face. "Harry, I'm sorry. I called you because I saw it happening and then I had to do it. You are here and it is now. Find your task. Then accomplish it. Do not fail us. I fear that if you do, we are all in the gravest peril. Not only here, but in your own Time as well. Good luck, Harry!" Simon Potter turned his head again and Harry heard him saying "Alright, alright. It was just a bad dream. I can't help bad dreams can I with the rotten animal food you expect me to..."

And then he was gone, so suddenly that his vanishing sent a shock through Harry and he actually fell backwards, landing with a painful bump on the hard, wooden floor.


	6. Chapter 6

**Harry Potter and the Golden Sovereign**

As told to Ian Postre

Disclaimer: This story is fanfiction. No financial benefit will be gained from the sharing or reproduction of this story. All characters and worlds described are the property of J.K Rowling. All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author.

The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Chapter 6**

For the first time, as he got up, Harry looked properly around him. The room was small, dimly lit through a tall, grimy window by a gas lamp in the street outside. The room was sparsely furnished but, as his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, now realising that most of the light had been emanating from the apparition that had been Simon Potter, he saw that the room really was in utter turmoil. Furniture – chairs and a table had been upended and broken. The room looked as if it had been searched, Harry realised - thoroughly. Ransacked. Things broken needlessly. A picture had been pulled off the wall. Harry went over to it, its canvas now torn, picked it up and looked at it. It was a painting of a train, an early steam train, with a chimney taller and thinner than the steam trains that Harry had seen pictures of in books in the Hogwarts Library. Uncle Vernon used to be a train spotter as a youth and there were stacks of train books in the living room in Privet Drive. This train was beautifully rendered in oil. Its livery was red and the artist had captured the steam which was, even as Harry gazed at the painting, pouring impatiently along a platform populated by children and adults, carrying owl cages, trunks and trolleys loaded with boxes. Along the side of this primitive looking steam engine was its name, emblazoned in brass. Hogwarts Express 1861.

Harry searched the rest of the room. A small bedroom led off it. This too had been turned upside down. Any papers had been removed or torn to shreds. A few books about the art of prophecy and divination had had their pages ripped out and scattered onto the floor. Papers were strewn everywhere. Harry picked a sheet of vellum that had neat handwriting on both sides, took out his wand and said "Lumos!". The light of the wand illuminated the words. Harry read:

"The terrible conflict between the giants has been brewing for many centuries. It was, as is so often the case with that folk, a battle for power and the control of territory. Usually, the power struggles result in a short brawl that lasts no more than a few days, weeks at the most, then everything dies down afterwards and there is a relative peace and a nursing of bruises for a few hundred years. But this conflict involved pretenders to the position of high giant king itself. When giants go to war there is bad and bloody conflict. There are no half measures in the efforts they will go to in order to emerge victorious. The natural temper of a giant becomes a thousand times more fierce and all thought and feeling is discarded in the quest for victory. The giants are in the process of destroying themselves, Joseph Potter was a man of peace. He was been a friend of giants since he was a boy and was determined to do all he can to save them from themselves. SP 4.7.65 "

SP was probably Simon Potter, Harry thought. Joseph, another ancestor. The numbers referred to the day, month and year. This was part of a diary. He picked up another sheet, this one torn in half: " "If I can get to Joseph in time, his life may be saved. We may be able to save something of the giant's race as well. The last time I heard from Joseph, he was close to persuading a small group of Bulgarian giants to abandon the fighting. But then I lost touch. Joseph is being held deep below a mountain that was once a fierce volcano. Joseph, being a man committed to peace, had always had the confidence of the inner circle of giants who controlled the flow of gold from America and Canada. Not Muggle gold, I mean wizard gold. There was an alliance with the goblins. Several different goblin factions, particularly one of Russia and the far east played one group of giants off against another in order to gain control over the stockpile. The Welsh goblins were having none of it and, for a while, they refused to trade. This has turned the giants in on each other, a lot of blame and fists are flying around. and this time, there is no end to the fighting. Word has spread that whoever holds the gold holds the right to be high king. Giants from all over are vying for position. The bludgeoning and clubbing is killing off entire tribes. Soon, if the pessimists are correct, there will be no giants left at all. Joseph went to America to offer his diplomatic services and to try to weave a fragile peace that would at least hold the giants back for a while from annihilating each other. A particularly nasty and ambitious band, headed by a very vicious character called Bonehead the Livid, took Joseph hostage and is holding him, in a secret cave that I have learned the whereabouts of...but the Order knows about it too..."

Did his task involve giants, Harry wondered. But surely Simon would have mentioned it?

Harry was fascinated. He was reading history and was utterly immersed in a way he had never been under the monotone, ghostly drone of Professor Binns. This was history – his history, the history of the wizarding folk. Simon was an adventurer as well as a seer. But it was still only history. What did any of this have to do with Harry. Harry put the papers down, more confused than ever.

There was nothing else to find here, not a single useful clue that might give him a hint of his task. Harry went over to the window. A street full of passersby in full Victorian outfits, long black frock coats, bowler or top hats, women in white or lilac dresses down to the feet, hansom cabs pulled by horses trundled past, a scruffy street seller peddling things that were too far away for Harry to see.

So, here I am, thought Harry. He took the golden sovereign out of his pocket and looked at it once again, searching its detail for any clue of what his task might be. Harry's face smiled back at him on one side. Not a clue there. On the other was a rather stern looking Queen Victoria. "1868", said Harry aloud. "That is my here and now, I suppose." And Queen Victoria winked at him before reassuming her serious, disapproving glare. Perhaps his task involved her? A golden sovereign coin, a queen... Gold? Giants? Joseph and Simon Potter? it made no sense to Harry.

Harry didn't share the confidence that Simon was investing him with. He swallowed hard. He felt alone and wished Ron were here. He wished Hermione were listening, taking all of this in, making suggestions. Although he believed this kindly man really was his great great grandfather Simon, Harry suddenly felt he was a very long way from home. The gold sovereign was still warm in his hand, but would it be able to get him back to Hogwarts? Would Harry be marooned in the 19th Century forever? How he wished that Professor Dumbledore were here to listen to his plight, to give him some advice and tell him what it all meant. Instead here was Simon Potter, an ancestor, who seemed to think that only he, young Harry Potter could fulfill as task neither of them could name. Harry spoke aloud into the gloom. "I'll try, Simon. I'll try. I have no idea what I am supposed to do, but I will try."

He put the golden sovereign back into his pocket, checked his wand was safely there too, which made him feel bolder and braver. He walked across to the door of this chaotic room, pulled it open and stepped out into the sound, the smells and the unpleasant smog of Victorian London.

Harry wandered through a London barely recognisable compared to the modern version he knew. True, some familiar landmarks were there - St Paul's, The Tower of London, the Thames. But apart from those, Harry might have been in a different country. Of course, he hardly knew the London of his own time, but the clothing worn by the people here was straight out of history books, and there were no cars or buses on the roads. A London of horses and carriages and the smell of drains. And another difference was the presence of wizarding folk on the streets. They were everywhere, outnumbered fifty to one by Muggles but they walked easily among them, not trying to hide their presence, yet, as he walked through the dusty streets Harry didn't see magic being practised openly either.

Harry wandered, he begun to realise increasingly without purpose, for nearly two hours, until he decided that perhaps a good place to find out what he might be here to do, was somewhere familiar - not in the Muggle world, but in the wizarding world. In London, that meant one obvious place - Diagon Alley.

Simply deciding on some kind of goal, albeit a familiar destination lent a spring to his step and he felt he now had some sort of purpose. He set off, trying to remember the way through largely unfamiliar streets.

Harry was very tired by the time he reached the wonderfully familiar entrance to the Leaky Cauldron. Now here was a place that had not changed one bit over the years. Here was the most famous wizarding pub, in its usual place. The sign outside was the same, the door that eluded the gaze of non-wizarding folk. Harry gladly went in.


	7. Chapter 7

**Harry Potter and the Golden Sovereign**

As told to Ian Postre

Disclaimer: This story is fanfiction. No financial benefit will be gained from the sharing or reproduction of this story. All characters and worlds described are the property of J.K Rowling. All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author.

The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Chapter 7**

The Leaky Cauldron was the almost the same inside as it was in his own time. Or always would be, Harry thought. Harry wondered if the famous tavern had ever really changed. It was when he looked more deeply that he began to notice the differences. The lamps that hung from the ceiling cast a dimmer, yellow light and were clearly powered by gas. True, the lights on or beside the drinking tables and cubby holes were animated by magic, for patrons preferred magic light to Muggle light. However, the charms required to light an entire establishment such as the Leaky Cauldron required too much effort and concentration, especially in the centre of a large, Muggle city. As the great yet unfortunately alcoholic wizard philosopher Alan the Bored had said: "there's no such thing as a free butterbeer". Butterbeer was, of course, on tap in this 1868 version, though it was served in large pewter tankards and there were few glasses to be seen. However, the usual crowd of wizard folk were to be seen huddled around tables though more than a few witches were dressed in large purple bustles and several tall wizard hats sported a peacock or an ostrich feather. Apart from the few differences, the pub was essentially the same as it would be over a hundred years later. In a way Harry felt relieved that much remained the same, it gave him a sense of security about this world. Whatever else might have changed, you could always rely on the Leaky Cauldron.

As Harry sat there, he drank a butterbeer that was altogether richer and less sweet than its 20th Century version. But otherwise it tasted much the same and was still delicious. And the few silver sickles and bronze knuts in his left pocket were good for spending here, as long as no one checked the date.

As Harry supped on his drink, his thoughts wandered to his friends back at Hogwarts and he became impatient, wishing for some idea of what he should do next. Again his hand wandered to his pocket and he took out the golden sovereign and looked at it. As he sat there Harry found himself passing the time doing something that Hermione would have scolded him for and had only recently taken Ron to task for doing. Harry carved his name with his wand in the oak of the table, simply to pass the time, hardly even realising he was doing it. It was something Fred and George would do, something he had never done before. But perhaps he also did it also to stamp his identity onto something real, given that his own identity seemed in some inexplicable way to be in question as he sat, marooned in a different century from his friends and schoolmates. Using his wand, Harry scratched out the following: Harry Potter, 1868. That was all, but it was enough to make Harry feel better, somehow more real in this Victorian world of shadows and uncertainties. It made him feel more 'there'.


	8. Chapter 8

**Harry Potter and the Golden Sovereign**

As told to Ian Postre

Disclaimer: This story is fanfiction. No financial benefit will be gained from the sharing or reproduction of this story. All characters and worlds described are the property of J.K Rowling. All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author.

The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Chapter 8**

Diagon Alley was nearly deserted and Harry wandered its streets for nearly an hour. He even dared Knockturn Alley. After what seemed like a wasted hour, he walked back through the Leaky Cauldron and decided to see once more what Muggle Victorian London might offer in terms of revealing a hint of his task. Harry didn't like being given a task to find a task. It seemed both bizarre and possibly impossible. Perhaps he should focus on finding Simon. Or perhaps he ought to go to the Ministry of Magic. Yes, that was his next destination, he decided. Then again, time travel was pretty much illegal so turning up there might be the worst thing he could ever do. Harry sensed that Simon believed Harry would uncover what he was here to do. So a longer walk in London would not be a bad idea.

Harry stepped out of the Leaky Cauldron into a busy London Street that was shrouded in a yellowy mist that smelled to Harry of bad eggs. He could have sat in the Leaky Cauldron forever and still have no idea what his task was. Harry had decided it would be better to get moving. Somewhere, anywhere. So he had stepped out of the partially familiar surroundings into the more unfamiliar Charing Cross Road of the year 1868. He decided to head down towards Trafalgar Square and a rather new-looking Nelson's column.

The shadow slipped out from its hiding place behind a wooden barrow and waited a few discreet seconds before making an exit and, darting in and out of Muggle doorways and stepping behind lampposts, the figure followed Harry, along the London street into the yellowing smog. The shadow was shrouded in black, a wand clutched tightly under its cloak. Little did the shadow know that it too was being followed, as a small imp of a boy followed at a safe distance as and kept pace the one following Harry. The boy had a grin on his face one moment, an almost panicked, cautious look the next.

The street became busier as Harry neared the National Gallery and the square. Far more wizarding folk than in Harry's time were on the streets, seemingly invisible to the passing Muggles, who thrust canes in front of them, tipping top hats to passing acquaintances. Pavements became cluttered with a young matchbox seller, a woman selling roses and carnations, and a man standing on a wooden crate offering to cure passersby of a whole range of diseases and ailments:

"Ladies and Gentleman, by appointment to her Majesty the Queen herself, I offer you this miracle elixir, fashioned from a secret recipe the contents of which are only known to myself and her majesty - from whom an 'humble servant such as meself can 'ave no secrets, I invite you to part with a mere half a shilling and be relieved of the winter ague, the aches in the joints, and from the coughs and sneezes of the cold of winter and early spring. avoid that autumn fatigue with this miracle of medicinal magic, this wizardry in a tiny bottle and all for a handful of pennies."

A young Muggle boy rushed past and stuck out his tongue at the old man whilst kicking at his crate sending the indignant salesman crashing to the ground as the wood fractured beneath him. The boy blew a loud raspberry as he rushed past: "Fraud ! It's rat's poo mixed with river water! Gave my mum a right night chucking up, it did!"

The angry salesman reach out growling towards the boy in order to box his ears, but the child was too quick and disappeared down a narrow alley.

The shadow trailing Harry might have also been a child as well so nimble and surefooted it was, no greater than four feet tall. Yet it was no child. This was a Goblin, and Crockfoot was its name. The way it darted behind lampposts disappearing into impossibly narrow nooks and crannies, the way it passed undetected among fat gentlemen in evening suits and plump ladies crammed into breath-squeezing corsets, made it clear that is creature was no Muggle. As Harry stepped across a street dangerously full of hansom cabs and ornate carriages, the shadowy kept a safe distance but continued to follow, bettered only in its fleetness of foot by the urchin of a boy who kept pace with it. A boy following a goblin following a boy.

Harry felt inside his inside pocket for his wand. Reassured his wand was still here, his fingers brushed the coolness of the golden sovereign. Seemingly his only connection with his own time, Harry felt relieved but still had little idea what the coin had brought him over a century back in time to do. In his first and second years at Hogwarts he'd accomplished somewhat clearer tasks, fought battles will all too real enemies. Yet, as Harry wandered through the streets of a London he barely recognised, he wondered what his next step ought to be. His trust in Simon hadn't diminished, but he was beginning to wonder if his great-great uncle hadn't misread whatever the "signs" were that prophets read. Simon Potter had seemed wholly confident in what he was saying and Harry hadn't really doubt him for a moment. He also knew in his bones that he was a Potter. Some part of him, deeper down, had recognised his ancestor and Harry felt glad, even thrilled to have met a living Potter; he had family, alive, even if they were living in a part of his own long gone history.

He also knew that travelling any real distance through Time was forbidden, and it was only allowed for short periods when strictly controlled by the ministry. Perhaps, at Hogwarts only Dumbledore was the only person allowed, or who even knew how to do it. As he walked along, a light drizzle had begun, and Harry found himself remembering an afternoon in the library when they were writing an essay for Professor Binns and Hermione had lectured them on the dangers of time travel. There were stories of "irresponsible wizards seeking golden galleons in the past who had never returned." Hermione had also warned them that "Time can get tired of you if you interfere too much and might even spit you out in a different time altogether, never to return". You had to tread carefully and responsibly, or Time might just grab hold of you and leave you living with the dinosaurs. Harry ran to a small arched doorway as the drizzle turned to a more insistent rain. _Brilliant,_ he thought. I might never even get back home. I might end up living with medieval Muggles or be spat into the Stone Age!

Near to Covent Garden market, Harry ambled across a street filled with the sounds and smells of a meat and poultry shop. Harry spied a large sign above a huge shop window filled with the hanging carcasses of cows and pigs. Harry turned his nose up at the sight but his attention was soon drawn to a man who was emerging through the front porch of the shop. Harry nearly jumped out of his skin as he was sure that he was seeing a grownup who was the spitting image of Dudley Dursley, dressed in a bloodstained butchers' apron. It was then that the sign painted in large black letters on the shop window caught Harry's eye - Augustus Dursley's, finest high class butcher." Harry looked from the sign back to the butcher, then in growing disbelief from the butcher back to the sign. "Come on, boy!" the butcher was saying to a skinny young boy who had appeared from behind the huge frame of Augustus Dursley, dragging a joint of beef that was almost as tall as the puffing and panting boy himself. Harry couldn't believe it. "Uncle Vernon?", the words escaped from Harry's lips as he recognised his Uncle's neckless head on the tiny frame of the complaining child.

Of course it wasn't his cousin Dudley, miraculously grown up and transported back to 1868. Nor was the simpering youth a suddenly shrunken Uncle Vernon. Harry realised that, by chance, he had happened upon his Uncle and cousin's ancestors, wearing the unmistakeable and thoroughly distasteful look, a look that would reappear in the persons of his unfriendly relations at the end of the twentieth century.

Harry walked on, smiling incredulously, wending his way nearer to where he thought the Ministry of Magic was located. He'd decided it wouldn't hurt to look. But the landmarks were mostly unfamiliar and he wasn't sure if he wasn't becoming hopelessly lost.


	9. Chapter 9

**Harry Potter and the Golden Sovereign**

As told to Ian Postre

Disclaimer: This story is fanfiction. No financial benefit will be gained from the sharing or reproduction of this story. All characters and worlds described are the property of J.K Rowling. All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author.

The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Chapter 9**

They were both fed up as they settled at the only free table at the Leaky Cauldron. With double Potions first thing on Monday morning, this was their last chance to find Harry and both Ron and Hermione were in Diagon Alley without permission anyway.

Under the guise of helping Hagrid in the Forbidden Forest, Hermione had called in a favour owed from a witch who ran a shop from a lesser known apocathery in Hogsmeade and they'd hitched a ride in her van which would be heading back in an hour. She'd questioned Ron's determination for them to both return to Diagon Alley and search for Harry as soon as possible. In the end she had given in. A few hours of fruitless searching later and trying just about every spell she knew to get into a still very closed Tockley's and she was tired, scowling and at a loss of what to do next.

"Listen, Ron" said Hermione, "We've searched everywhere. Tockley's is well and truly closed for the season and with more protection charms around it than Hogwarts. Who knows where Samuel Tockley has gone off to. We've been shoved and threatened in Knockturn Alley and almost thrown out of Gringots. Harry isn't here! We'll simply have to go back to Hogwarts and go straight to Professor Dumbledore..."

"Bloody Hell, Harry!" complained Ron. "Why couldn't you have waited for us!"

Ron, who was fidgeting with his wand, tapped the heavy, old table in frustration. "I need a butterbeer. A large one."

Hermione glared at Ron. There was a pause. "Oh, I see" scowled Hermione. "What a gentleman you are. I'll get them, shall I, Ron?"

Hermione stood up; Ron wasn't really listening. "Cool."

She harrumphed and stomped off to the bar, leaving Ron staring moodily into space and continuing to fiddle with his wand. He flicked it a little to the left and then pointed it lazily at the table. The table was covered in writing - graffiti etched over decades, even centuries by wizards and witches for a host of reasons lost to history. Ron could just make out a "Brina loves Nickoff" with a broomstick carved through a heart. There was a more-recent looking set of calculations and a some crudely written words that made Ron grin. "Snape is a greasy twerp". Just above the word twerp was a much fainter bit of etching. Whoever had carved these words with their wand into the old wood must have done it a very long time ago. Ron leaned forward, his curiosity piqued and tried to read the words. He grew accustomed to the more faint wording and then dropped his wand in shock. It clattered across the table, coming to rest just before it would have fallen off the other side of the table. "Blimey!"

"Hermione!" Ron barely breathed, then, realising she was over at a crowded bar, turned and shouted, almost screamed her name. "Hermione! Get over here. You have to see this."

Heads turned at the sudden eruption of a shout in what had been a mood of whispering and low key chatting. Hermione hurried over, two frothing butterbeers in her hands. She carefully placed them on the table. "What are you shouting for? I was coming. There's a big queue at the bar..."

"Never mind that. I think I've found Harry."

Hermione frowned, looking disbelieving. "Found Harry? What on earth are you on about, Ron."

"Look." said Ron. He took Hermione's arm and pulled her closer to the table. He guided her hand to the place where Ron had read the faint wand-etched words.

"Graffiti. Yes, it's shameful if you ask me. Why can't people just come for a drink and...". Hermione tried to sit down.

"No. Be quiet a minute. Here! HERE! Look! Read that!" Ron said urgently.

Hermione leant closer, over the table and read the words that Ron pointed at.

Hermione gasped and looked at Ron. Ron was nodding and looking back at Hermione.

She turned back to the words, this time reading them aloud. "Harry Potter, 1868."

"Triple blimey!" exclaimed Ron.

"We have to tell Dumbledore!" Ron was saying as they both waited outside the Leaky Cauldron for their lift back to Hogwarts with the witch. If the witch wasn't late they'd be back in time for supper and no one would be any the wiser.

Ron expecting Hermione to immediately agree, did a double take when she shook her head and replied: "Ron, we can't."

"Blimey!" Ron retorted. "Well, well! I didn't expect that from you! You're usually the one who says we should go running to a teacher when someone so much as farts in class."

"Don't be ridiculous, Ron." Hermione said, hurt.

Ron scowled. "Then why can't we? Harry is stuck in the past - over a hundred years ago!"

"We don't know that he's stuck." said Hermione, getting flustered.

Ron pressed on. "Well what's he doing there, then. And why didn't he tell us?"

Hermione looked very worried. "I don't know, Ron. But don't you see? Harry has traveled through time. That golden sovereign must have been some kind of temporal apport. It would have apparated him without him needing to know how to do it himself. If there was a box, that is."

"Read it in the library I suppose?" Ron half-smiled.

Hermione glared at Ron. "As a matter of fact, yes. But that's off the point, Ron. Using time magic to travel is illegal, Ron. It's about as illegal as you can get. Harry would be expelled immediately if a teacher found out. And God knows what the ministry would do to him. It doesn't bear thinking about."

Ron paced up and down, feeling completely at sea. He had no idea what they should do next. "Then what do we do?"

Hermione looked worried. "We'll talk through everything properly. We might be able to find out more in the..."

"Alright dears. Got all me stock and ready to hit the road. The van's parked out the front. My, my, you two look like you've just seen a death eater!" It was their lift back to Hogsmeade.

They hurried after the witch as a light rain began to fall on Diagon Alley. Evening was closing in and the witch opened the side doors to the van with a flick of her wand.

"We need to find out more, Ron. Before we can decide what to do. For the moment, we are just going to hope that Harry knows what he is doing." Hermione whispered.

"We need to find Harry, full stop, Hermione. And I reckon, bloody quick."


	10. Chapter 10

**Harry Potter and the Golden Sovereign**

As told to Ian Postre

Disclaimer: This story is fanfiction. No financial benefit will be gained from the sharing or reproduction of this story. All characters and worlds described are the property of J.K Rowling. All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author.

The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Chapter 10**

It is a black-walled, circular chamber, seventy feet underground. There appear to be no doors, and certainly no windows. The walls are of black obsidian and the single red-flamed candle is reflected a multitude of times so that the chamber is eerily, if effectively, lit. At the centre of the chamber is a stone plinth, also jet black. It is on this plinth that the red flamed candle burns. Directly above the flame at the apex of the room is an image of an eagle, the size of a real one, embedded into the stone of the ceiling.

Suddenly, with the sound of a too-short in-breath, three people appear, forming a triangle, standing, facing the candle flame. Two are men, one is a women. They are cloaked in black, with the same eagle symbol emblazoned on the crests of the hoods that are pulled down over their eyes to obscure their faces. All three pull back their hoods and stare at each other, their cold eyes reflecting the candle light and its many reflections. The men have long, blond hair, pulled back into ponytails, tied with leather. The woman has black hair and a cruel grin on her face and extruding from her eyes. The trio look at each other, agreeing in silent conversation that the timing must be exactly right. On a silent count of six, they pull out wands of birch and point them together, forming a pyramid of directed wands and right arms, up towards the sign of the eagle, directly above the candle flame which suddenly grows in size to encompass the entire plinth.

"Chronos Accio Voldemort" they say together, in clipped tones, sounding half-human, half clicking spider.

There is a pause and then, in the distance, as if emanating from outside of the room, comes a sound. At first it is hard to determine; as the sound grows louder it seems closer, the noise an echo would make when reversed. Like an oncoming train, this sound erupts into the chamber from all sides at once, but primarily it bursts forth and downwards from the silver eagle side. As it does so, the metal forming the great bird, seems to melt, form and reform, yet never losing its eagle shape. It detaches from the chamber ceiling and takes flight, swooping low at the heads of the three wizards in black, forcing one to cower down and one to nearly fall backwards. The woman stays firm, staring at the eagle as it darts towards her, sharp sliver talons of light threatening to rip her face and neck to shreds. She, Lucretia Malfoy is the one who has not flinched and who directs her wand directly between the eagle's eyes. As she does so, sliver light connects monster-bird and wand and she has control. It freezes in mid air, wings still flapping, cawing angrily, but this witch has tamed it, as she knew one of them at least would have to. This was perilous dark magic and she looks contemptuously at her two companions. "Fool! Coward. I have it"

Lucretia Malfoy slowly and carefully moves her wand towards the candle light burning fired-red on the plinth. The eagle comes to settle on the horizontal surface and, once fully within the crimson glow, becomes completely still, a statue of silver again.

But not for long. The light flares up and flickers until settling once again to fully inhabit the form of the eagle. For about a minute it is still as a silver statue, lit scarlet by the candle heat and flame. Then the head moves, the eyes change their hue to cold blue, and a voice sounds from the throat of a bird poorly made for human speech. Only through the power of the being using this totem for its travel through time can they hear the voice of a man, calm, gentle yet menacing, a voice that could kill with a single word.

The woman steps forward and bows. The two others bow as well, lower even than the woman.

"My Lord Voldemort. Welcome to the Summoning Chamber of the Order of the Eagle."

The Eagle peers at the woman and then an eagle-man voice gently speaks its first words in the year 1868:

"My lady Lucretia, you have the pure look of your descendents. I am pleased. Now, I do not have much time. About the boy..."


	11. Chapter 11

**Harry Potter and the Golden Sovereign**

As told to Ian Postre

Disclaimer: This story is fanfiction. No financial benefit will be gained from the sharing or reproduction of this story. All characters and worlds described are the property of J.K Rowling. All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author.

The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Chapter 11**

Harry made his way to the bottom of Charing Cross Road, past St Martin in the Fields and into the sudden expanse of Trafalgar Square. The imposing figure of Nelson dominated the square standing proudly above the vast area filled with pigeons jostling for position among the crowds waiting for Hanson Cabs and the many traders (not all legal) who were peddling their wares out of wooden crates; Muggles selling elixirs and miracles cures for just about every malady and ailment known to man. Here once again Harry was surprised to see wizarding folk wandering relaxed and freely among the Muggle population, hardly different from the gaudy attire of many in Victorian London. There they stood amused at the Muggles' attempts at cures for the common cold, foolproof ways to regrow lost hair and even methods to regrow lost teeth (and besides, as all magic folk knew not even the greatest witches, wizards or alchemists had come close to discovering a cure for the common cold).

One large woman, quite clearly a witch, was sniggering at a man with a shock of red hair which stood atop his head wearing a purple tail coat who was trying to persuade passersby to purchase his tiny bottles of "clean all liquid" that he promised that would halve a scullery maid's dishes time and keep her hands soft. He was demonstrating with a scrubbing brush and a bowl of soapy water filled with dirty plates (his own red raw hands looked like they had been plunged into a vat of acid). It was all the witch could do to stop herself muttering a simple spell and showing these Muggle fools how a scrubbing brush could be made to dance in the air before setting to work on the grimy crockery and making short work of it in minutes! Harry didn't have time to stand and stare and hurried across the square until he came to the far end of the Strand.

Suddenly rough hands reached out from a shadowy alcove and pulled Harry into the shadows. Harry felt hands try to reach into his pockets. There were two of them and one had Harry by the throat and began to squeeze his windpipe, so that he couldn't even cry for help. He staggered to the floor but his attacker went with him and tightened the grip.

Harry struggled but to no avail. His head started to swim and he knew that if he lost his wand or the golden sovereign, he'd be done for.

Suddenly the grip of one of his assailants loosened and then Harry felt him let go. He heard a curse and then the second attacker said "Bugger, you little runt. Ouch! He's got a bloody knife!"

A small but determined voice, not belonging to either of these two thugs said: "Too bloomin right and I will stick your bloody heart if you don't shove it!"

Suddenly Harry felt himself released and the two who'd jumped him ran off. As he felt his throat and enjoyed the rush of breath returning to his lungs, he saw that the two who were disappearing into the darkness of the alley were both youths, not much older than him.

Harry checked for his wand and the sovereign. Both were still there.

Then Harry noticed a small boy, looking up at him from the safety of the shadows of the alleyway. He was smiling, dirty-faced and with a small grey working cap on his head. He couldn't have been more than eight or nine.

The urchin, all sooty faced and in need of a long bath stared open mouthed and wide eyed at Harry.

"Hello wizard boy! Need an 'and ?"

He offered Harry a grubby, greasy hand and helped him out of the slimy gutter.

Once Harry was standing, brushing the worst of the mud and grime off his trousers and jacket, he surveyed the young boy who had probably just saved his life.

"Thanks" said Harry.

"Nuffink to it, Wizard boy. Can't have you getting done over by rotten turncoats."

"Harry." smiled Harry."My name's Harry."

The boy grinned and showed a mouth of yellow teeth with several gaps. "Pleased to meet ya, Mr Harry. You can call me Archie. Though me real name is Creevy. Archie Creevy." Even through all the filth and dirt, the resemblance was unmistakeable.

Harry nearly gaped. "Wot you strain' at, Harry Wizard Boy?"

Harry stopped staring. "Sorry, it's just that you look like someone I know." The boy continued to grin. "Well we best get away from this joint before those buggers come back fer more. Come on, folla me!"

Ten minutes later they were seated on a bench overlooking the Thames. A few rowing boats and a small steamer were moving slowly by.

And there, sitting on that bench, with his newly gained ally (Harry still didn't know why the boy was helping him), Harry made a decision. He would try to find Simon Potter. That, Harry decided, was as good a task as any, to be getting on with. And if he could find him perhaps he could rescue him.

Harry turned to the boy, Archie, would was swinging his legs over the parapet over the mudbanks for the Thames. "Archie. I need your help."

Archie turned and look earnestly at Harry. "Always 'appy to 'elp a wizard boy. What d'ya need?"

"I need to find Simon Potter. He's er.. a relative of mine. It's important I locate him. But I don't know where to start looking."

"Billy Backbolt!" Archie jumped up. "One of the biggest crooks in Cheapside, But if anyone knows anyfink. Billy does. And it just so 'appens that 'e owes me a favour... Come on Harry."

And with that, Archie grabbed Harry's wrist and led him back towards Charing Cross. The shadow-clinging goblin cursed as they soon lost him. He turned around and went to make his report.

Archie led Harry through a maze of narrow alleyways, through arches, under a railway bridge, doubling back on themselves. He pulled Harry down some steps and along a narrow lane towards the Embankment. Before they reached the river he darted down a narrow alleyway. This dashing and darting continued for quite some time until Archie led Harry down some stone steps that led to a very run down looking pub called the Lost Quay Tavern. The gloom of the interior was matched only by the reek of stale beer. The place was almost empty apart from a few very drunk looking men who snorted into their tankards of ale.

Archie winked at the barman and shouted: "Oi! Is Bill about ?"

"You're in luck, boy" replied the barman. "He's out back doing a bit of business. You'll get a thick ear if you disturb him."

Archie shrugged. "Well, he owes me a favour ! Archie produced three bulging black wallets and grinned at the barman.

Harry grabbed hold of Archie's arm before the boy ran off again. "Archie, who is this man. Can we trust him?"

Archie grinned through gap teeth. "Can't trust anyone in London. But if anyone knows anyone in London, if you wanna tail someone, Bill's yer man. If you wanna find someone, Bill's yer man.

Archie, so eager to help, darted through a room behind the bar, leaving Harry to find a creaky bench and table in a shadowy corner. A few minutes later a thickset man in a suit two sizes too small for him entered, located Harry and came to sit down opposite him. He looked like the cat who had got the cream, a cocky, knowing, confident smile on his face.

"Bill. Pleased to meet you." The man held out a hand that was scarred and none too clean. "Bill Smith." Harry didn't like the look of this man. "Harry. Harry Dursley."

"Harry Dursley... Hmmm. Well Harry Dursely, I owe young Archie a favour on account of a few... collections he recently done for me. You're looking for a Simon Potter I believe."

Harry shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Yes. Can you help me find him."

"No" replied Bill. "But I know a man who most likely can. I'll set up a meeting for two o'clock this afternoon. His name is Shadefellow. Albert Shadefellow. You are to meet him at the Regal Wizard Tea House on the Strand. 70 and one half the Strand. You'll know it when you see it. Your lot always do." Archie had reappeared, drinking the last of a small mug of beer and was waiting for Harry by the door.

Bill got up and Harry followed suit. "Nice to do business with you Mr ... Dursley."

Harry didn't trust this man but this information seemed his only hope.

Harry walked across the pub towards the door as Bill called after him. "Favour done, Archie boy. And Mr Dursley..."

Harry turned. "Yes?"

Bill smirked and then his face became threateningly stern. ""e have never met."

"Agreed." Harry replied, turned on his heel and left with Archie.

Bill walked slowly across to the bar and addressed the barman, a thickset brute of a man. He didn't look up as Bill spoke, all the while polishing a tankard with a filthy rag. "Send a message to Shadey. 2pm. The Regal. I think it's him. The boy."

"Done" said the barman.


	12. Chapter 12

**Harry Potter and the Golden Sovereign**

As told to Ian Postre

Disclaimer: This story is fanfiction. No financial benefit will be gained from the sharing or reproduction of this story. All characters and worlds described are the property of J.K Rowling. All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author.

The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Chapter 12**

The Regal Wizard Tea House was clearly a wizarding establishment. From the outside it looked like it occupied a tiny corner shop along the Strand, unseen by Muggles, its door set back by a small weather-beaten step to the right of a rather larger boutique boasting the latest in fans and wigs and other paraphernalia that Muggle ladies wore to the Opera or to dinner parties. Inside, though, the teashop was vast, almost the size of the ground beneath a Quidditch pitch, Harry thought. Even though the ceiling was low enough for a mildly tall person to have to bend their head, enormous crystal chandeliers hung above each rounded table with four ornate black chairs making the whole place seem like a riot of multicoloured lights which streamed like stars from each light fitting. Harry wasn't sure if it was strangely beautiful or in the worst possible taste. They were the kind of light fittings that Aunt Petunia wouldn't be averse to having in her living room at Privet Drive.

Seated around the hundred or more tables were wizards and witches, men and women dressed in a way that Harry would have called "smart for magic folk". Harry noticed the crest of Slytherin embroidered in the centre of each star covered table cloth. The stars of course twinkled from time to time and an occasional meteor shower cascaded below the china teapots, cups and plates.

Hair brushed back neatly and eyes fixed with a pride and confidence Harry found unnerving, these people reminded him of a man he had only met a few times and would have been happy to never meet again; Lucius Malfoy. And at that moment Harry realised who these people were; the long perfectly cut tailcoats, the polished boots and shoes, the haughty, superior expressions on their faces as they sipped their Royal Wizard Blend Tea, these were the Pure Bloods. This was a meeting place for the so-called high born wizarding folk and Harry didn't feel at home here at all. Were there death eaters here? Of course not, Harry assured himself; all of that was yet to happen in the future.

But Harry knew these people. As dainty cakes appeared on tables and pots of steaming tea and coffee were delivered on gleaming trays, hushed voices could be heard like the rustling of trees at night in the Forbidden Forest. Harry hadn't met any of these people before, but he immediately knew he didn't want to. Yet there was nothing for it. Harry made his way through the tea house, a sense of nervousness rising in him - "Please don't anyone talk to me" he heard himself thinking. He had no wish at all to have dealings with any of these people, wizarding folk or not.

"Can I help you?" Harry jumped as a tiny waitress almost completely hidden under the tray of china crockery she was carrying stepped in front of him.

"Thank you" Harry almost whispered, trying hard not to draw attention to himself "I am looking for a Mr Albert Shadefellow"

If it were possible to point with a perfectly round tray the small waitress managed to, turning slightly and expertly so that the spout of the teapot sitting upon the tray appeared to point in the direction of a table in the far corner to the left. Harry followed the direction of the spout and his gaze came to rest on a man who was so fat that his knees had settled on either side of the table making it look just like the tray Dudley used for his three or four TV dinners delivered by Aunt Petunia every night directly onto his bulging lap. The man wore a gargantuan dark green suit, a lurid orange cravat was tied round his almost invisible neck, beads of sweat covered his shiny bald head and ran down his globe-like face collecting like drizzle at the bottom of his bulbous nose and several fatty chins. Harry did a double take as an entire bath bun was lifted by large pink fingers and popped into a cavernous mouth as if it were an Every Flavour Bean.

Harry almost turned on his heels to make a swift run for it. But this man was his only hope of finding Simon, his only real point of contact and besides, Harry was attracting a few curious and unpleasant looks from nearby tables. And a speedy exit would arouse the curiosity of the whole eerie establishment.

Damn! thought Harry. There was nothing for it."Thank you", he said, turning to the waitress, whose face he still hadn't seen under the shiny tray. She seemed to drop a few inches, then rise up again, rattling all the bone china crockery before Harry realised that she must have curtsied. As she did, Harry saw two saucer-like eyes averting their gaze; the waitress was, of course, a house-elf.

Trying not to draw any more attention onto himself, Harry headed straight for Mr Shadefellow's corner table just in time to see him stuff three chocolate eclairs into his mouth at the same time. The huge purple lipped mouth closed lazily behind them and then the throat seemed to wobble like an elephant's bottom. Harry was sure that no chewing the taken place at all." Sit down boy" said Master Shadefellow in a voice as tiny as a mouse. A broad grin suddenly broke out all over the man's face as he indicated an empty chair opposite. Harry didn't hesitate and sat down immediately, glad not to be standing under the disapproving and annoyed looking gazes of the other patrons.

Shadefellow looked Harry up-and-down appraisingly." You are rather small for a detective, boy."

"A detective?" replied Harry, confused "I'm not a detective!"

Shadefellow smiled again. It was not a particularly unpleasant smile but Harry wasn't sure if it was a nice one either.

"Well, my boy," Shadefellow went on, "you will have to become one if you are to have any hope of finding Simon Potter."

Harry's spirits sank. He was alone. In London. He barely knew the London of his own time let alone this one. How could he even begin to look for Simon without the help of this man? And the man before him oozed mistrust.

He looked at Shadefellow who was looking straight back at him, intently.

"I was told you might be able to help me. I need some information." said Harry in a hopeful voice.

"It's a possibility, my boy, a distinct possibility." Shadefellow attempted a smile but it didn't hide the hidden shrewdness of the man.

"May I ask what you do, sir?" Harry enquired.

Shadefellow laughed a mouselike kind of laugh which sounded very strange coming from the mouth of the man so huge. "It is probably better that you don't. Suffice to say that any friend of the William Blackbolt is a friend of mine. Now listen very carefully, this is what you need to know. I am going to give you an address. It might not seem like much, but it is exactly what you need to know. The address belongs to a certain person who is the most likely individual in London who will know the whereabouts of your dear lost relative. Yes I know you are looking for Simon Potter before you ask. I have my own lines of communication and dear William sent a message in advance of your own arrival. So I am going to write down the name and address and you my dear young detective can take things from there."

Shadefellow leant forward, pulling out a small visiting card from his inside pocket and a black pen. He wrote a few lines and held the card before Harry.

"Very well. Go and see this man. His name is Doctor Horsetail. He is well connected in – how shall I put it – the circles of wild hunting birds – If anyone has information concerning where your relative is … residing … it will be he. Now, for payment..." Shadefellow eyed Harry shrewdly, as if weighing up a market purchase. "What have you got ?"

Now Harry realised that Mr Shadefellow would want something in return for this information. All he had were a few golden galleons, his wand and the golden sovereign. Harry reached into right hand pocket and pulled his money out.

Shadefellow tutted. "Money doesn't interest me young man. I have more than enough of that. I wonder if you have anything else?"

Harry considered thanking Shadefellow and simply getting up and leaving. But he needed this information and, without it, he was back to square one. Finding Simon was still the only task that gave him any sense of purpose. As he was thinking these thoughts, Shadefellow continued to stare at him and whisper under his breath. Harry's left hand had unconsciously strayed to his left pocket and, before he could stop himself, he had taken out the golden sovereign. Had Shadefellow uttered a spell quietly whilst Harry was occupied with working out what to do next? He quickly made to return the coin to his pocket but, quick as a lizard's tongue, Shadefellow's bulging fingers had snapped forward and slapped down onto Harry's hand like a trump in a card game. "Ah! Now this looks much more interesting. That is more than just a golden sovereign I believe!"

"That isn't for sale" Harry said firmly.

Shadefellow's eyes didn't leave the golden coin for an instant. "That, my dear young fellow is my price for information that I rather think is vital to you and perhaps, your relative. If he is in the clutches of the Order of the Eagle I doubt anyone will ever see him alive again. And they know how to end life slowly, very slowly and painfully indeed." Shadefellow held out the visiting card with the writing turned away from Harry's gaze.

If Harry gave up that sovereign, he knew he might never return to his own time again. But what choice did he have? He couldn't abandon his great great uncle to a fate, perhaps worse than death.

"Alright." sad Harry. "It's yours."

Shadefellow removed his huge hand from Harry's upturned one and said: "Good. Give."

"The card first, please." Having made a firm if fateful decision, Harry felt a lot braver now. Harry's eyes kept a steady gaze and matched Shadefellow's own calculating glare.

"Good. Good!" Shadefellow flipped the card over in his fingers and then placed it in the table.

"How can I trust you?" said Harry. "How do I know the information on that paper isn't fake?"

"A good question. A fine, mistrusting question for a young man!" Shadefellow brushed Harry's question aside. "I am Shadefellow. The reason you were given my name is because I have a reputation in this fair city for procuring information that people need. I wouldn't have much of a reputation if I peppered it with lies and deceit. But, ultimately..." He suddenly laughed and dribble and a globule of jam spilled, like blood, from his lips, "you'll just have to trust me!"

Harry picked up the card and handed Shadefellow the sovereign. Without even looking at it, he pocketed the coin. "And now" Shadefellow went on. "If you don't mind, my next assignation arrives in ten minutes. So, I'll be bidding you goodbye." He indicated Harry and then the door with a flick of his wrist. Harry's developing dislike of this man had turned quickly to hate. He rose from the table and, without another word, headed for the door.

As soon as Harry had re-entered the busy Strand, Shadefellow reached into his pocket and took out the golden sovereign, turning it over in his fat fingers and smiling said: "Interesting. And worth a small fortune!"

He repocketed the coin and then reached into a side pocket from which he took out a mobile phone. He pressed no buttons but again whispered imperceptibly a few words under his breath and put the phone to his ear. A few heads from other tables turned and looked curiously at this strange implement. One or two disapproving glares followed. Shadefellow ignored them all.

"Hello?" he said into the phone. "''It is I. Yes, I have it. The boy seems entirely clueless. He is on his way now."

He replaced the device back into his pocket and sat back, inhaling an enormous breath of satisfaction. Then he clicked a finger and a waitress rushed over. Shadefellow was in a mood to celebrate. Another successful day was coming to an end. "A second tower of buns I think. And more Earl Grey!"

Harry crossed the Strand feeling despondent. Even though he had possible information that would help him to find Simon, the thought he had given up his golden sovereign, his only means of returning to his own time, left him with a deep sense of defeat and feeling deflated.

As he reached Charing Cross Station, he jumped as a "Psst" seemed to come from nowhere. Harry spun around and there was Archie. "Did ya get what ya wanted then?" the little boy asked.

"In a way, yes." said Harry. "Thank you, Archie."

"Well you look like deff warmed up!. Ya don't look very happy, 'arry!" Archie looked concerned.

Harry looked at the small boy, who looked up at him eager, friendly, full of a wish to help him. He tried to smile. "No, I am. I've got an address. It might help me to find Simon. But he took my coin. He's got my golden sovereign."

"Wot! Your special coin?" Archie looked mortified. Harry had told him his story earlier on as they walked, deciding to trust this boy who'd saved him from two nasty attackers.

"Yes" replied Harry, "I am afraid he did. It was what he wanted to trade for the information. And now I'm not sure I can get back to my own time." Harry started to walk towards the far end of Charing Cross Station. He needed somewhere to sit down, to plan what he was going to do next.

"Come on, Archie." said Harry. But no matter where he looked, Archie had vanished, in the blink of an eye.

"Well," said Harry to himself, "He might be a squib" (which Harry suspected little Archie was) but he can disappear quicker than a wizard!" and he carried on walking towards the lights of the station tea shop.

Five minutes later Harry was seated on a bench near Platform Three, looking at the name and address of Dr HP Horsetail. He jumped again as the "Pssst" erupted from behind him. Crouched behind the bench was Archie. Grinning. "Archie" said Harry, suppressing a grin of bemusement of his own, "Do you really have to keep doing that?"

"Gotta stay out of sight in 'ere. They don't like ragamuffins in the station. Here..."

A filthy, small fist shot through the metal grating of the bench and the fingers uncurled to reveal something gold and shiny lying on the tiny palm. It was the golden sovereign." Harry was delighted and overwhelmed with relief as he realised what it was. "Archie! You're brilliant. How did you...?"

"Didn't seem right ! So I waited for the fat bloke to come out the tea place, ran rings around him and got this too! In his other little hand Archie held a brown leather wallet. I can eat for a month on this!" Suddenly a whistle blew and Archie was up. " Gotta run, Harry! Peelers on the prowl! Good luck!" And Archie was off, tearing along the platform. Over his shoulder he shouted: "Find yer in a bit!" The last Harry saw of him was his little arms lowering him onto the tracks and his small form disappearing out of the station, up the line. The policemen gave up the chase as they had probably done more than once before.

"See ya, Archie" Harry whispered, delighted and relieved, and curled his own fist tightly around the coin.

Archie seemed drawn to Harry, even fascinated by him. It was as if this little boy needed a wizard for a friend. Harry wasn't complaining. It was good to have an ally, even if he was only four feet tall.


	13. Chapter 13

**Harry Potter and the Golden Sovereign**

As told to Ian Postre

Disclaimer: This story is fanfiction. No financial benefit will be gained from the sharing or reproduction of this story. All characters and worlds described are the property of J.K Rowling. All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author.

The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Chapter 13**

Charing Cross Road met Oxford Street amid the bustle of street sellers of all kinds selling, evening papers and an elderly man sold hot chestnuts roasting over even hotter coals, his own face as dark and shriveled as the nuts he sold. A barrow boy breezed past expertly dodging a Hanson cab by inches, his load of apples almost spilling into the street, the driver uttering a loud curse. But this boy was no novice and not one apple actually fell from his barrow. The streets were busy as people made their way home through the smog and noise of London.

A group of youths, no older than ten emerged from a house, the door slammed behind them, they were covered from head to toe in soot, their chimney brushes held aloft like flags. Indeed, Harry observed, almost all of the children he had seen in this London of 1868 seemed to be working hard for pennies in one way or another. Harry supposed this must be the late afternoon rush hour, the cobbled streets were so crowded with people impatient to reach their various destinations. Even here Muggles seemed oblivious to the many wizards and witches who made their way along the main street before disappearing down shady side streets, or into ill-lit alleyways. Several wore cloaks and hats that were not much different to those one could see in Diagon Alley in Harry's own time.

A small minority of others however wore smart pressed suits or lace dresses, their only distinguishing feature being a line of gold stars, a purple pentagram, a crescent moon, or a red silk scarf that changed colour with the mood of its wearer.

One witch walked past Harry along Oxford Street and suddenly stopped, giving him a stern, piercing look. Her scarf immediately turned from a sickly green to a deep crimson and one of her few yellowing teeth went jet black. "This in no place for a little wizarding urchin to be with night closing in. Are you an orphan, boy ? Get back to your master in an enchanted house." If it were possible for a black tooth to twinkle, then that is what happened next. The witch smiled an awful smile and the single black tooth twinkled, an ebony star bursting forth out of her mouth and, for a split second, it took the shape of a cockroach, before evaporating in the air. It made Harry feel distinctly sick.

But before he could answer, she had walked on, cackling to herself, her scarf resuming its original colour, a scrawny black cat suddenly appearing from a small alley-way and tearing after her. It had begun to rain, gas lamps were being lit as Harry pulled his jacket tightly around him and headed down Oxford Street past rows of stalls selling the latest Penny Dreadful novellas. "Hot off the Press - The Temptation of Phoebe Carruthers!" shouted one seller. "Who is the mysterious man in the black bowler?" yelled another. How was he going to find Dr Horsetail's chambers amid all of this bustle and confusion?

"Alright, Harry?" Harry jumped. It was Archie. "Come on, stop dawdlin'. Let's find your Horseface geezer!"

But London was a big city and even Archie didn't know all of its streets.

They wandered for what seemed like hours. A map would have been a great help but he knew enough history to know that this London didn't have shops and stalls on every street selling bright tourist maps for a few pounds. And, of course, living with the Dursleys in Privet Drive, Harry hadn't been allowed out much, and didn't really know even modern London at all. Of course, he knew the main landmarks from books and television. Buckingham Palace, Horse Guards Parade, Downing Street and The Tower of London. And of course, there was London Zoo in Regents Park where he had first discovered he was a Parselmouth. He had no idea if that we here in 1868.

Also, not wishing to draw attention to himself, Harry dare not ask anyone for directions to Henrietta Street, the address on the little card, so they took to following a barrow boy in the hope that he was heading towards the right area which, according to Shadefellow was very close to Dr. Horsetail's chambers, not far from Covent Garden market.

Being in a richer part of London, not even Archie knew the way. Unfortunately Archie seemed to be making a circuitous tour of the entire west end of London, stopping at regular intervals to greet friends, to receive an angry cuff round the back of the head for leering at some colourfully clad dancers as they strode out of the backstage of a music hall in Shaftsbury Avenue. The boy had simply laughed and leered all the more.

To Harry's relief, Covent Garden market suddenly appeared. its enormous glass roof looming high in the evening sky as Harry turned a corner, trying to keep up with the barrow boy. The smells of a full day's trade, not all pleasant by any means, mingled with the rough language of weary market traders closing up their stalls, a few still keen fellows calling out unmissable bargains in order to be rid of some of their damaged stock before heading off to a local tavern to spend at least some of the day's meagre takings on a pint of warm ale.

Harry wandered through the stalls, the fruit and vegetable carts, past a flower seller whose toothless grin had ensured a better days' takings, and the promise of some lean meat pie, piping hot with steamed potatoes and boiled carrots. More than a few gents would be making their way home wearing a pink carnation, unbeknown to them stolen from the neatly kept gardens along Park Lane. Once again Harry noticed that amongst these hard working Muggles there mingled folk from the wizarding world; a wizard, unashamedly dressed in a blue-starred cloak with an enormous pointed hat also bedecked with silvery moons and zodiac signs haggling with a young man over the price of artichokes, no doubt to form part of a potion to double the size of his evening meal.

Through the sounds of a market closing for the night and a hundred people catching up on the days' gossip, Harry heard a church bell chime the hour - eight o'clock. He had to get to Dr. Horsetail's offices. Even at this hour, there might still be someone there, someone who could tell him where Simon was, someone who could help him.

It took them less time to find Hentrietta Street for, by chance, Harry was standing next to a Peeler who was saying to a friend. "We've 'ad a tip off from one of the Reddish lads that there's some dirty dealin's in Henrietta Street again. Below the Ripping Yarn tavern. I'm, on me way there now." So Harry followed the rather thin policeman and his besuited friend and within five minutes they were standing at one end of Henrietta Street. A few moments of reading brass plaques next to black painted oak doors, Harry was standing at the foot of the white-washed stone flight of steps that led to a very official looking building of some three storeys. A silver plaque was engraved with the words: H. P Horsetail, PHD. M Royal Soc. Above the plaque was a bell chain. Harry reached up and tugged at it. Hanging from the bell chain was a brass bell-pull in the shape of a cherub, its angel wings of metal folded neatly along is back. Somewhere in the depths of the building a high, tinkling bell rang. Harry waited. Archie had vanished again, off to relieve someone of a wallet, no doubt.

Nothing happened. Harry waited for several minutes before he was almost was ready to give up. He gave the rope one final and impatient tug. "There's no one in!" said a small and rather squeaky voice. It took Harry a few moments to look around and finally realise that the cherub had come to life, was climbing up the bell rope, then swinging lazily from the rope like a trapeze artist, its little golden wings fluttering like a humming bird. "So you might as well go away." said the cherub, then giggling in a rather unpleasant way.

Harry frowned as the cherub blew a very rude raspberry at him.

"If you don't mind" said Harry, "I'll wait."

"Please yourself", said the cherub, "Just don't pull so hard, if that isn't too much trouble." as it dropped lazily down from its own chain and became a frozen bell pull once more, leaving Harry nonplussed, standing on the steps, beginning to feel the chill of a rapidly darkening evening.


	14. Chapter 14

**Harry Potter and the Golden Sovereign**

As told to Ian Postre

Disclaimer: This story is fanfiction. No financial benefit will be gained from the sharing or reproduction of this story. All characters and worlds described are the property of J.K Rowling. All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author.

The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Chapter 14**

And then, suddenly, the front door creaked open, on its own. Harry waited for someone to come to the door. No one did. So slowly, he went in, stepping into a dimly lit hallway with two doors on either side and one at the end. There were plaques on the two doors, left and right, nothing on the door at the end. As Harry entered the corridor, the front door suddenly, though gently but firmly closed behind him. Harry turned and tried to open the door. It wouldn't budge.

Harry didn't panic but did take out his wand and held it cautiously before him. The sign on the left door said "Dr P. Horsetail."

Harry knocked.

No answer.

He knocked again, harder.

"Enter" came a voice from within. As Harry made to turn the handle on the door, it opened itself.

Slowly, his wand held firmly before him, Harry went in.

Doctor Horsetail's office was a plush affair, with a stately leather armchair, studded with brass buttons dominating the centre of the room. A huge mahogany desk covered with an assortment papers and antique looking books stood by a window partly obscured by gold braided, black velvet curtains. A real bearskin rug was spread out in front of a white marble-surrounded fire place , the bear staring through lifeless glass eyes, open-mouthed at Harry, it's sharp teeth yellow and threatening. Above the fireplace was a giant oil painting almost twice as tall as Harry. The picture was of an old woman staring into the room and it was only when she turned her frown on Harry that he realised that this was no Muggle office.

"What are you doing in here, boy ?" scowled the woman.

Harry thought quickly. "Erm... I have come to see Dr Horsetail."

"Horse?"replied the stern woman in the painting. "Horse? More like foxtail, boy." She cackled from her picture frame and then beckoned to a white bearded, bald, wizened old man who was the sole occupant of a small and grim-looking portrait on the mantelpiece. Suddenly he looked up at the woman and revealed a long black pipe in his hand. He disappeared from his picture on the marble shelf leaving only a black curtain behind and soon was standing next to the old lady in the larger oil painting. Bald with just a few wisps of dyed black hair greased over his forehead, he looked at Harry, puffing on his pipe."Indeed, my boy. I'd be wary of a fox who claims the tail of a horse."

Harry had no idea what these two stern old folk were talking about. The elderly gentleman looked liked his necktie was too tight. "I'm sorry." declared Harry, "I don't understand. I'm here to see Doctor Horsetail"

"More of a tale than a tail!" giggled the woman.

Harry was losing patience with this pair and was about to try to ignore them, when the man pointed his pipe at Harry and started to gesticulate with it. "Boy! You'd do well to listen to my Lady!"

Harry turned back to the picture.

"Listen, boy! We shouldn't be telling you this" said the old woman. "But that short, fat, swine tried to freeze us in our frames ! Thought he'd gagged me. What a cheek ! Said I talked too much !We'll I haven' stood here for over a century without learning a trick or two of my own. Well, nobody will silence the grey Lady Bullfinch! Be careful boy, that Horsetail is not all he seems."

Harry didn't like the sound of that.

"Listen to her my boy. There's danger here for you. We heard them." added the old gentleman almost invisible behind puffs of smoke which were filling not only the great painting, obscuring the window onto a green pasture overdone with garish thick green brushstroke, but also the smaller portrait he had recently deserted.

Harry wasn't sure if this pair weren't just being mischievous. So many of the inhabitants of pictures at Hogwarts caused no end of trouble, usually through the boredom of being in the same limited gallery for such long periods of time they turned their attention to the world outside, seeing what fun was to be had there. Should he wait, or heed their advice and get out quickly?"

"He doesn't believe us!" complained the old woman. "How rude."

The man nodded and sighed, drawing on his pipe and then exhaling, making the woman splutter and cough. "Sad for such a young boy to be so cynical. That is the Age of Progress for you ! Look boy, look on the desk! Go on, look !"

Harry looked to where they were feverishly pointing, then crossed the room and stood before the desk. In front of a high wooden chair was a large page of blotting paper laid out with an ink pen beside it. Written in large letters were the words:

D. HORSETAIL MD

"Bewitched ink!" shouted the woman. "A parlour trick!"

Harry looked at the name as it began to replicate itself down the page changing a letter each time. The letters kept magically jumbling and un-jumbling. Harry stared, transfixed, unable to take his gaze away from the dancing letters.

T. HORSEDAIL MD

T. HORAEDSIL MD

T. HOMAEDSIL RD

T. HOMASDEIL RD

T. HOMASREIL DD

T. HOMASRIEL DD

T. HOMASRIDL DE

T. HOMASRIDD LE

Harry turned white. "Thomas Riddle!"

"Well done!" applauded the old woman. "The boy can read! There's hope for him yet !"

"Too late for him, dear Lady" sighed the old man who began to walk back to his own picture.

Harry ran and tried to duck behind the desk as he saw and heard the slow turning of the handle of the door to the office.

A goblin entered, an ugly-faced wretch with scars across his cheeks. He uttered some words and, before Harry could even pull out his wand, he was frozen, unable to move an inch. The goblin walked over to Harry and kicked his legs from under him so he fell with a painful crash to the hard floor, narrowly avoiding cracking his head on the hard surface of the desk.

"Dr Horsetail MD! And a piece of riddling paper to catch a nosey boy! That's a clever tricksy charm, that is" jeered the Goblin. "Riddle's what you most fear to take your mind off opening doors and disarming spells! Welcome to Hell, Mr Harry Potter."

Harry was pulled out of the office back into the corridor and then taken through the now open door at the far end, then roughly pushed down some rough stone steps and along a dark corridor, through an open metal door and, again, he was shoved to the ground.

The goblin quickly searched Harry and soon found his wand which he took. He examined it carefully and tucked it in the pocket of his tailcoat. He seemed so satisfied with this find that he omitted to search Harry's trouser pockets and therefore didn't discover the golden sovereign. He turned around and marched out of the cell, closing the heavy, creaking door with sliding heavy bolts.

Harry was well and truly a prisoner. He felt helpless without his wand and lay dejected on the stony floor. There was a bucket in the corner and some very old looking straw in the corner.

It was almost completely dark. Harry was now regretting his impulsive visit to Samuel Tockley's shop and beginning to wonder whether Simon Potter was any more reliable at reading signs than Sybil Trelawney.

Hours went by.

Harry slept fitfully - wandless though he now was, and with scant moonlight making its way into this below-ground cell, through cobwebbed, filthy glass and thick iron bars, he dreamed once again of tearing skywards to earthwards on his broom with cackling witches attacking from all sides. The ground rose up to meet him and this time he could make out jagged, knife-sharp rocks and a gaping hole with more fatal rocks like sharpened teeth, it seemed to grow larger and wider and in the depths of that yawning chasm Harry was sure he could see eagle-like eyes, shrewd, waiting for his inevitable descent.

As he plunged further, unable to pull away, Harry screamed. His scream continued as he sat up in almost total dark, black but for the lit tip of a wand belonging to a pockmarked goblin, staring at him from the cell door. "Sweet dream, boy ?"

The goblin leered. He placed a pewter dish with some very stale looking bread and a small cup of brackish water on the floor and backed out through the doorway. "Eat your fill. We need you upright and awake. The master will be ready for you in ten minutes so get up!" The goblin slammed the door.

Still trembling from the dream, a panic was rising inside his belly that eclipsed any horrors that dream has offered. Harry's right hand instinctively went to the lightning scar on his forehead which had begun to prick and then to burn, its intensity increasing, punctuated by little but viscous stabbing pains.

After a few minutes the pain receded to an insistent dull, pulsating ache. Harry squinted in the darkness at the food. He picked up a piece of the bread. Even in the dimness of the cell he could see little creatures - maggots he assumed, crawling through the bread. He threw the morsel of bread away and it struck the opposite wall. Hungry as he felt, maggots were not going to be on his breakfast menu. What would Ron and Hermione be eating at this very moment ? he mused as he resigned himself to an empty belly. Sausages, bacon, stacks of toast, mugs of cocoa in the main hall at Hogwarts.

Harry could almost smell the blueberry pancakes with maple syrup. But Harry had been hungry many times before and was used to mornings feeling the empty space in his belly. A whole childhood living with the Dursleys had kept Harry thin and with a regular groan of complaint somewhere around his middle. So, leaving the water and the horrid bread, Harry sat, hugging his knees and waiting for something the happen. Ten minutes went by and there was no sign of the goblin's return.

Harry got up, feeling cold, stiff and with an aching back from sleeping on a hard, cold stone floor. He went over to the corner where the barred window, high up was letting in meagre sunlight that told him that the sun had probably risen a couple of hours ago. He could just make out some clouds and a tiny streak of blue sky. Suddenly a bird flew past, a large creature by the look of it and Harry suddenly found his thoughts turning towards Hedwig, his owl, miles and miles and years and years away. "Oh Hedwig", Harry muttered aloud. "I wish you were here now." There was a loud clunk behind him as iron bolts were pulled aside and locks sprung open by expert goblin magic. " Here, boy. The master will see you now."


	15. Chapter 15

**Harry Potter and the Golden Sovereign**

As told to Ian Postre

Disclaimer: This story is fanfiction. No financial benefit will be gained from the sharing or reproduction of this story. All characters and worlds described are the property of J.K Rowling. All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author.

The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Chapter 15**

The wish flies upwards and outwards but also inwards and onwards. It travels distance taking the form of a shimmer in the air. It runs faster than light and bends space to the will force lying at its heart and it splits a second in two and then two again. Within the flash of a life-pulse it arrives at its destination, almost before it was dispatched. Time rights itself and space unbends, leaving a small scar in the landscape below across the places it courses. One squib gains the power to charm that has stepped unknowingly in its path. It arrives at the place it was wished. Suddenly, high in the beams of a wooden tower, comfortable in the easy stench of owl, Hedwig uncurls from a head buried in a wing, looks sharply skyward, takes majestic flight to answer the call of her master, Harry Potter. She knows what she has to do, perhaps even better than he intended. For quickly she flies through an open window of Hogwarts Castle, picks out a boy and a girl, he with red hair, hers long and in need of a brush, and lands heavily on Ron's plate, sending sausages and tomatoes flying into the air and then landing on Neville Longbottom's lap. Neville looks crestfallen as sniggers can be heard from Draco Malfoy and his friends at the Slytherin table.

Hedwig was restless, agitated and she pecked at Ron's left ear, as if trying to get his attention.

"Get off" howled Ron. "Ouch!"

Then something very strange happened. Hedwig left Ron and turned her attention to Hermione. She settled on the Gryffindor table and stared straight at Hermione, hardly moving.

"Do you know where Harry is, Hedwig?, " said Hermione gently. "Have you come to show us where he is ?"

But Hedwig didn't move, as if she were waiting for something. She looked at Hermione and then leaned towards her on one leg and tried to get into her inside left pocket.

"What the hell is she doing ?" said Ron. "It's as if she is looking for something."

Hermione pushed Harry's owl away and reached into her pocket. "What is it you want, Hedwig? I haven't got anything for you!"

Hedwig hooted. Hermione reached further into her pocket and pulled out her wand. "Look Hedwig, there's nothing in here. Just my wand."

Hedwig tried to get at the wand, flapping her wings furiously and trying to snatch it with her sharp beak.

"Blimey! exclaimed Ron. "She's after your wand!"

Hermione struggled with the bird and then an instinct seemed to take over. Hedwig had never behaved like this before.

She knew Harry might be in terrible trouble and this was, after all, his owl. Owls and cats were very closely connected to their masters and were very tuned into their feelings and even their location. She and Ron had talked and then argued for hours about what to do about Harry. They had already decided to try again to get into Tockley's and, failing that, to go to Dumbledore. Now here was Hedwig, Harry's Owl, behaving very strangely...

So, suddenly, gently, Hermione stopped fighting off the owl and offered her wand to its beak. It gave her a playful nibble on the wrist, then took the wand in its talons as it flew into the air, soared high up to the roof of the Great Hall, and was gone, out of the window into the low clouds over Hogwarts.

Ron looked at Hermione, utterly bewildered. "What was THAT all about.?

Hermione, now wandless, shrugged.

_The owl soars up and high, over the towers of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, then climbs into a low-hanging cumulus cloud, heavy with rain, and then onto paths of both wind and light. The light shimmers an d the bird spies the readiness of a fledgling storm to send forth a small fork flash into the sky. The owl speeds up, timing her arc perfectly as she finds the edge of the electric fork and dares its danger. Where light meets wind, she locates the pathway and glides into its embrace. The lightning flashes forth and yet also bends itself, opening a way into other paths - paths that can carry a bird born in magic through Time._


	16. Chapter 16

**Harry Potter and the Golden Sovereign**

As told to Ian Postre

Disclaimer: This story is fanfiction. No financial benefit will be gained from the sharing or reproduction of this story. All characters and worlds described are the property of J.K Rowling. All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author.

The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Chapter 16**

Harry was led roughly along a corridor lit by lamps bracketed to the damp brick walls, giving off an eerie indigo blue flame. This wasn't magic light - these were Muggle gas lamps effusing their glow from rustled damp pipes. At the end of the passage the goblin stopped and pulled a bell handle that stood next to a blank brick wall that looked as if it had been dripping limestone for centuries. The goblin waited, then turned scowling to Harry. "Go in."

Harry eyed the damp brick wall and thought the Goblin must be playing a joke on him.

"Go in !" The Goblin repeated and this time pointed his wand tip directly at Harry's forehead.

"How? There's no door." Harry dared.

The goblin tutted. "Idiot boy! Go through !"

Remembering the arched wall between platforms nine and ten at Kings' Cross, Harry took a breath and stepped through the brick wall. A moment later he was standing in a circular chamber. The three hooded and cloaked people turned towards him, their faces shrouded, and Harry noted a stone plinth with a candle flame the size of Hagrid's head on top of it. Inside that burning red light was some kind of bird which turned to stare with piercing eyes at Harry. It was an eagle, all silver apart from the eyes. It fixed its gaze on Harry's face and its beak bent, to the right as it angled its head, still looking, as if thinking.

Harry felt as if he was being weighed up, examined, scrutinised and then the eagle opened its beak and a distant voice came out of it, as if some distance away, even far off, not quite in the chamber

"Yes" it half spoke, half croaked. "Yes! That is indeed the boy. Harry Potter." And in that moment, despite this being a silver eagle, Harry knew at once who the owner of that voice was.

"Voldermort." said Harry and he turned to flee through the wall.

The goblin, with an evil smile on its foot-wide thin lips barred the way. "No going back that way, boy." the goblin sneered. "You'll add to that scar by smashing into six foot thick brick wall."

"We waste time." interrupted the bird.

Harry realised it was hopeless and, resigned to his current situation, turned back to face the bird-Voldermort.

The bird peered at Harry. "I cannot hold this form for long. Harry Potter. No I want you to listen to me."

With no other option, Harry met the eyes who had taken the lives of his parents and tried three times to kill him. "What do you want, Voldemort?"

"Don't you dare speak his name !" snarled one of the hooded figures who stepped forward and raised his arm to strike Harry.

"No need for that... yet" Voldemort commanded and the figure resumed its place as part of a triad around the plinth.

"Harry. There is no further need of death and loss. How that foolish myopic seer Simon Potter failed to see that I would know you were travelling through Time defeats even me. We are strangely connected, you and I, Harry. As soon as you left our Time I sensed your sudden absence like a kind of interesting ache. Where has the boy gone, I asked myself. It was a small matter to trace you to here and a slightly more inconvenient one to bring at least a semblance of myself. I apologise for not being here in person but that is sadly not quite possible, for now. But the Order of the Eagle has been splendidly helpful in facilitating my occasional visits here and Lord Voldemort rewards those who are loyal - whatever, how shall we put it ? - whatever the time ! Now, Harry, tell me now - what are you doing here in 1868?"

Of course Harry had no intention of giving any information to the Dark Lord and he pursed his lips and remained silent, unmoving.

"Tell the Dark Lord, or meet unbearable pain!" another of the hooded figures almost shouted, raising a wand at Harry. The voice revealed her to be a woman.

Harry stared back, looking braver than he felt. Not a word escaped his lips.

"Shall I, my Lord?" The hooded woman continued aiming her wand at Harry's heart.

"No." said Voldemort, almost gently. "There is no need. We aren't here to kill Harry Potter. You see, Harry, your answering the call of your dear, naive ancestor has - how shall we say - opened up a rather fortuitous window of opportunity. Indeed, I could even say. A win-win window of opportunity !"

If it is possible for an eagle to laugh, this eagle did so and the three members of the Order of the Eagle seemed to screech and caw with it.

The sound was horrific, inhuman and devilish. After a few moments, the bird-form that played host to Lord Voldemort stopped laughing and turned its attention once again upon Harry.

"Now listen Harry." it said, "I am going to make you an offer that you cannot refuse, or indeed, will not refuse."

"I won't accept any offers from you, Voldemort". Harry stared back, with a steely and defiant look on his face.

The bird chuckled. "I would not be so sure about that, Harry. But we shall see. Harry all I ask is that you consider my offer. There's no harm in looking, now, is there?." The bird seemed to fade for a moment and then the light flared and strengthened. "We do not have much time."

"And what if I refuse ?" Harry's voice trembled a little.

"I do not think you will refuse when you see what you are being offered. Now is the time, I think."

The eagle turned its beak towards the third hooded figure who nodded, bowed and pointed his wand towards the far end of the chamber, the opposite end to the place where Harry had entered with the goblin.

"Harry," said the bird, turning back to him. "I am going to offer you something you have lost and miss dearly with all your heart. Something I'd very much like you to have back. Your venturing into to the past has opened up- how shall we say - a new avenue, a new possibility. And I am going to offer that possibility to you."

The hooded figure uttered the words: "Emergo Chronos Alternati!".

Suddenly the wall fell away, light flared then settled into a defined form as a picturesque scene replaced it - sunlit with the sound of a fresh breeze in the many trees that lined a beautiful, winding forest path. A black cat stood on the path, washing its paws. Then it looked up, noticing the chamber and looking directly at Harry. Then it turned and began running along the path away from the chamber. Every so often it stopped and turned back and looked directly at Harry. It was the same cat Harry had seen in the Tunnel of Time.

Once it meowed and it felt to Harry like a gentle invitation to step through, out of the dark, horrific chamber, onto the lovely path, to follow it. Everything about this scene felt better, safer and more welcoming that the terrors of the dark chamber and a stinking, damp prison cell. Yet Harry didn't trust it for a second.

"What if I refuse ?" Harry said again, not moving an inch.

The bird preened its feathers for a moment, ignoring Harry. At the same time it answered him. "I do not think that would be wise Harry."

And all three of the hooded figures pointed their wands directly at him.

Harry shrugged. "Then I suppose I don't have a choice, do I?"

The bird seemed to flicker again and then it was gone. But the three wands were still pointing directly at Harry. The cat meowed once again, this time a little more insistently. Harry took a breath and, wandless, lost in Time, trapped in a dark dungeon with a threefold death curse moments away, stepped onto the path and felt wonderful, warm sunshine on his face.


	17. Chapter 17

**Harry Potter and the Golden Sovereign**

As told to Ian Postre

Disclaimer: This story is fanfiction. No financial benefit will be gained from the sharing or reproduction of this story. All characters and worlds described are the property of J.K Rowling. All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author.

The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Chapter 17**

The cat padded along a narrow forest path. There was a fresh, soft breeze carrying the scent of ferns and pine trees. Every so often the cat stopped and checked that Harry was still following him. Its movements were like a gentle invitation, a calling that imperceptibly grew stronger with each step.

Harry followed, but also took care to look at the forest, whose trees stretched away across lush, mossy hillocks, in all directions to a azure blue sky that met the horizon adorned with green hills and a few wispy white clouds. The further he went into the trees, the calmer everything felt, all memory of threat beginning to recede. An alarm went off in Harry's head, but where could he go? He was here to discover a task. He had no wand, no access to the box to get him back to his own time - his friends, even his family in Privet Drive. All he had was a prophecy and a plea to trust in his great great uncle.

"I am here and this is now." Harry muttered to himself and the patient cat waited until he continued on the path.

Harry stepped forwards again and the cat resumed its gait, miaowing in approval.

After about half an hour, the trees opened out into a warm glade. In the centre of the glade was a beautiful English cottage with a thatched roof, smoke puffing lazily from a small chimney, surrounded by a garden containing apple trees and numerous brightly coloured flowers. Harry reached the whitewashed garden gate which he pushed open.

Everything here felt welcoming, carefree and kind. Indeed, there seemed to be not a care in the world in this place. Harry stepped into the garden as the cat sat washing itself near a small fountain, covered in pink blossoms.

He heard the sound of someone humming in the front room of the little cottage and went across to the small timber framed window and looked in. There were two people within, a man and a woman, both in late middle age. Sofas were set by a tiled fireplace, a clock on the mantelpiece and a painting above of horses in a field, white horses... like a Patronus, Harry thought, and for a moment the meaning of that word escape him.

Harry gazed in through the window was sure there was something familiar about these two people, but he couldn't be sure what it was. Both had their backs to him. The house seemed to beckon him from every whitewashed brick or timber beam. There was a familiarity about it that made him want to be part of it. Wasn't this his home?

The man and the woman were husband and wife - somehow Harry just knew it, and they were sitting opposite each other at an oak kitchen table in this beautiful, English cottage, stone walls, a large window, curtained with yellow, looking out over a beautiful spring afternoon garden. Harry entered this pretty scene, walking to the open front door and stepping through into the hallway, noticing bunches of lavender in a small dish in the arched porch. He then walked into the living room, unnoticed at first by the couple. Then he was standing at the sturdy table, just as the faces of the old man and woman turned to meet his confused gaze, a look of love and affection in their eyes.

"Ah! There you are Harry! We wondered where you had got to." The old man smiled as Harry noticed he was peeling a pear with a small knife.

"Come and sit down Harry. Your tea's nearly ready." The woman held out her pale hands to him, her face a picture of warmth and familiarity.

Harry couldn't believe it. Of course he knew these people! The woman had taken his hands in hers and laughed. "Don't look so serious, Harry! You'll be getting lines on your young brow, and you're far too young for that!"

Harry felt a tear falling down his cheek. He felt his own hands being softly squeezed and he looked deeply into the faces of these two people. "Mother? Father? Is it really you?". "Listen to him, Lily! Anyone would think he hadn't seen us for years! Harry, what's up, boy? Have you had a difficult day at work?" James Potter, who must have been at least sixty or more years old, got out of his chair and put his arm firmly around his son. "Your mother has made you some marmalade cake. Your favourite."

Harry's head was spinning. Tears began to stream down his face as his mother, her hands in his, and his father, patting him proudly on the shoulder, told him about their day on the farm, the trouble milking the goat, chasing a stray hen, delivering a lamb, as if it were just another normal day in their lives. As if this was how it had always been. Had it ? The memories of the dark chamber were fading fast.

Time seemed to re-costume him, reset his being, settling around him, it seemed to age him, but in a way that felt satisfying, as if his whole self were filling out, as if he'd been smaller, somehow less substantial than she should have been. Emptier, thought Harry. This is what has been missing...

This was all the boy had ever dreamed of. To be with his mother and father, with dear James and Lily - he had only a faint memory of them through his encounter with the Mirror of Erised. Yet he had always missed them, had always wanted to be with them, to grow up with them and tell other people they were his parents. Here was aching hole, waiting to be filled. Here was the piece that was missing. Yet now, as the clocked ticked, somehow slower than a real second on the mantelpiece above the grate, it felt as if nothing had ever been missing. This was how it had always been. What bad dream had he just woken from?

Lily took Harry's hand and led him outside into the garden which was awash with pansies and pink roses. As a warm, crimson sun began to set behind a green hill covered with sheep, Harry began to forget about golden coins, about his adventures at Hogwarts, about Hagrid and Dumbledore, and Ron and Hermione, even about magic.

Lily made tea and then, almost in a daze, James took him out into a large meadow and chatted to him about problems with one of the Friesian cows not giving much milk. Hours passed. Harry spoke little, drinking in his parents and this place. As each moment passed by, he was immersing, sinking deeper into this realm.

His hand strayed to his pocket at they returned to the cottage and his fingers closed around the sovereign. He took it out and James asked: "What have you got there, Harry?"

Harry frowned, looking at the golden coin. He had no idea where it had come from. The last wisp of a memory rose into his mind and he saw the face of an old man, or was it two? One was wearing half moon spectacles, the other looked like a much older Potter. The faces merged then vanished. "I'm not sure, Dad. I think someone gave it to me."

Harry put the coin back in his pocket and they continued to walk.

They returned to the cottage, a golden retriever pup and a ginger tomcat now fussing at their heels, his mother promising to patch his trousers, his father joking about an argument about watered beer in the village inn. All as if this had always been the life they had lived; together, James, Lily and Harry Potter, a contented farming family in the heart of Derbyshire! A nation of three. Time passing by. Gentle time. Offering him his dream, a new time; yes, a new, lovely time. Old memories floating away on the wisp of the wind, glide into the sighing forest. New memories settle, like snowflakes in winter, turning quickly to ice.

Minutes later was when the shock came. When dinner was over, Harry was the first to enter the narrow hallway that led from the front door to the cosy kitchen when he saw his image in a tall mirror next to the mahogany coat stand. "Woah!" exclaimed Harry. It was not a young, teenage Harry Potter who looked back, but a fully-grown adult with no lightning scar, neatly cut short, slightly greying hair, and ... a short, dark beard! Instinctively Harry reached for his forehead, and then for his wand only to discover that he was holding a set of car keys where his wand should have been !

"My wand!" Harry almost shouted. "Where is my wand?"

He'd already forgotten it has been taken away the memory of that world was nearly gone but the deeper memory of owning one still clung on.

"Wand?" his mother replied. "What wand, dear?"

"My magic wand!" Harry almost hissed, turning to face the genuine looks of concern on the faces of his parents. "My magic wand!"

"Magic wand? said James, laughing as he opened the door to the living room. "My, my, you're always the joker ! There are no magic wands here, Harry! You know that."

"What do you mean ?" Harry was becoming suspicious and only now had noticed the gruff, low-ness of his own adult voice. "Who am I? Who are you? What is this place ?"

"What has got into you, Harry?" James replied. "You're beginning to frighten your mother. What's all this nonsense about wands?"

Harry's mother urgently took his arm. "Harry, this is your home. It has always been your home. What's the matter, my love ? Are you feeling unwell?"

Harry was starting to feel dizzy. "Yes." Harry replied. "You must be right. Actually, I'm not feeling too well. I must be tired. I think I need some fresh air." Harry edged past his father and almost fell through the front door. His mother was beginning to cry. "Harry. Dear, Harry! Whatever is the matter?"

"I'll be alright!" Harry called behind him. It broke his heart to see his own mother cry.

Harry took great gulps of the fresh air that greeted him as he stumbled along the garden path and walked almost in a run along a wide track beside a field of Jersey cows. A few hens pecked busily here and there in the yard. Harry tried to clear his head, not realising how much of his real past he had already forgotten. This all seemed so real. A dream come true. A life with his parents, parents who loved him, who were concerned for him. But where was his wand ? How had he grown into an adult ?

"Perhaps I have been ill." thought Harry. "Perhaps I have always been here and everything else has been a dream."

"Harry!" Harry turned to see his mother standing at the gate to the cottage. "Harry, come on in, it's getting cold ! Why don't you come here and tell me what you'd like for your tea."

This was all Harry Potter had ever wanted, had ever dreamed of. Already memories of Hogwarts, and Privet Drive, and Knight Buses, and Quidditch were beginning to fade, to be replaced by thoughts of a history teacher's job in the village, a Volkswagen Beetle in the barn, and a life of gentle pleasures, home cooked food, and a blazing fire in the grate.

"Please, Harry ! There's a good boy!" There was a desperation in Lily Potter's voice.

James Potter stepped out onto the porch and beckoned his wife to come in out of the cold. There they both stood, James with his arm around Lily, Harry's parents, HIS parents. Then they waved. And that did it! Just as they had waved in the mirror of Erised, James and Lily Potter smiled and waved at their son, Harry. In that moment Harry remembered who he was. He was the Boy Who Lived.

"No!" cried Harry, tears beginning to flow down his cheeks once more. "This isn't real. This isn't REAL!"


	18. Chapter 18

**Harry Potter and the Golden Sovereign**

As told to Ian Postre

Disclaimer: This story is fanfiction. No financial benefit will be gained from the sharing or reproduction of this story. All characters and worlds described are the property of J.K Rowling. All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author.

The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Chapter 18**

Harry turned and, literally fled for his life. The sudden falling away of the illusion was like a near fatal electric shock combined with a suddenly broken heart. Realising the illusion was truly heartbreaking for Harry and he would have collapsed and given up had not the sudden shock of realisation been accompanied by a huge feeling of release. He literally released as the whole scene seemed to melt away, to fall apart like the thousand piece jigsaw puzzle scattering in all directions as a fist is brought heavily down upon it. Harry ran only a few steps before he lurched and fell back into the dark, circular chamber. The illusion's light faded and Harry was alone in the near black, the red candle flame just a pin prick of light.

He was still crying, and felt utterly exhausted. He lay down on the icy stone floor, and barely moved until the goblin entered, tutted loudly and then hauled Harry to his feet. "Bad decision, boy. Back to the luxury of your cell until the master decides what to do with you. It will only be the manner of your death that will need consideration I think. No one refuses the Order of the Eagle. Perhaps we'll find an eagle or two to pluck out your eyes."

Minutes later, Harry was back in the dank cell, lying on his back, staring at a ceiling he couldn't see when, suddenly, he heard a ruffling noise coming from outside the window.

So, Harry mused - they were going to be that quick were they. An eagle really had come to do its master's bidding...

But this was no eagle. The ruffle of feathers was somehow familiar to Harry Potter. He knew that noise - the particular pause between feathers being preened. And then, a short, almost moping hoot. The sort of hoot an owl would make. The sort of hoot that HIS owl made when it was angry with Harry for not letting her out of her cage at Privet Drive. This was a hoot to get his attention. Harry ran to the corner of the cell and looked up at the barred window. He couldn't believe it! "Hedwig!" Harry cried. "It's you! It really is you."

The hoot came loud and clear, despite the fact that the bird held a wand, firmly and deftly in its talons. The owl leaned forward and dropped the wand neatly into Harry's outstretched hand.

Harry could just make out the wand's detail in the dim light that came through the window. He knew that wand! It was Hermione's!

"Hermione! Ron!" said Harry. There was an indignant hoot. "And you too Hedwig. You are all brilliant".

There was a noise behind him and the owl took flight. Bolts were being drawn aside and Harry was suddenly filled with a cold fury. He felt stronger than he'd felt in days, forgetting his aching legs and arms, brushing aside his hunger. The squat goblin entered, expecting to find a compliant, listless boy, lying on the floor. What met him when he stepped into the cell was someone entirely different - a lightning scar, shining as window light shone onto a sweaty forehead, fierce eyes, and a rock steady hand holding a freely-lent wand from a best friend.

Harry smiled grimly and aimed. "Petrificus Totalus!"

The goblin froze, then Harry stepped forward, bent down and kicked the goblin's legs from under him, The creature crashed to the floor, unable to move.

A moment later, Harry stepped over the prone goblin and was through the door and out of his cell.

No one had expected an escape. The Order of the Eagle had underestimated the Boy Who Would Live.

There on a hook was a bunch of keys. Harry grabbed them, in case there were locked doors further on. As he passed a door to what looked like another cell he heard a voice call out, perhaps assuming his footsteps to be that of the goblin guard. "Water! I'll die of thirst! Please bring me some water."

Harry recognised that voice immediately. "Simon!" Harry exclaimed and ran to unlock the door. A few moments later, Simon Potter, looking thin, weak and even more haggard than when Harry had met his projection, staggered out and gripped Harry's hand, leaning on him for support.

"Harry! How did you... well, no time for that now! I certainly didn't foresee this! Good to meet you in the flesh, at last."

"You too" said Harry. I think we need to get out of here before someone comes back and discovers we've got out. Can you walk?"

Simon grimaced. "Yes, I can. I'm sure I can."

And even though very weak, Simon was so delighted to be free that he found the energy to limp along the corridor and up the stony stairs which led to Horsetail's chambers. As they made for the front door and freedom, Harry couldn't believe his eyes when he spotted his wand, lying on a small table near a coat tree. He was gladder than he'd ever been to pluck it up off the table, carefully putting Hermione's into his inside pocket, but keeping his own out, and at the ready.

But they encountered no one else on their way out into the light of a street, a light that dazzled Harry and nearly blinded Simon. It took them a few minutes to grow used to it once again. Harry was torn, bruised, starving, but free.

When they had put a good quarter of a mile between themselves and Horsetail's chambers, Simon stopped, leaning against a brick wall and said to Harry. "Harry, I am so very sorry. This has all put you in a danger that I certainly did not foresee. This has all gone too far. This is what we must do. I want you to go to London Docks, south quay and find the Ruby Lou Pub. Go to the end bar and speak to Enrico Rose. Give him this password: "Tea Leaves" and he will give you the Box of Time. Bring the box back to my rooms. Meet me there is two hours. I am going to contact people I know at the Ministry. We now know where the Order of the Eagle's base in London is and I am going to ensure it is raided. It is time the Ministry put a stop to their activities once and for all. You can tell me your story when we meet later. Whatever this task is of yours, I'm not prepared to risk your life for it. So, go now. Until later!"

"But Simon..." Harry began but with a sudden swishing noise, Simon was gone, disapparating away in seconds.

And one thing was for certain. Harry did want to go home, As soon as possible.

It was then he heard a loud hoot above his head. When he looked up, there was Hedwig. She hovered above him and then flew off, but never losing sight of him. Harry knew Hedwig and knew she wouldn't leave him. "Show me the way to the Ruby Lou, Hedwig" Harry called. And he quickened his pace, following her along the street towards the river.


	19. Chapter 19

**Harry Potter and the Golden Sovereign**

As told to Ian Postre

Disclaimer: This story is fanfiction. No financial benefit will be gained from the sharing or reproduction of this story. All characters and worlds described are the property of J.K Rowling. All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author.

The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Chapter 19**

Harry had thought that the Leaky Cauldron was the only wizarding pub in London. But of course, why should it be? There were many thousands from the wizarding world who lived in and around the city. Of course there must be many such places. The Ruby Lou was actually a barge on a narrow canal that backed onto the large tenements and warehouses along this side street. You entered through a plain looking gate and then found yourself walking down a creaky wooden ramp down to the tiny entrance at the side of the floating pub. As Harry stepped onto the wobbling steps down onto the boat he heard the sounds of laughter further along the canal. It was then that he noticed that all of the windows on the back of the buildings high and low were boarded up.

Four or five storeys and at least two hundred yards they stretched along both sides before the canal bent out of sight in each direction, Harry saw that maybe thirty or more barges were moored along the dark waters of the canal, each adorned with bright lamps of blue and red and green, with a luminescence and constancy that made Harry sure that these were all wizard barges. Indeed here was an entire floating village in the heart of London, hidden from Muggle view, with their own tiny pub.

The laughter was emanating from a particularly shabby but brightly lit boat halfway along this stretch of canal. Harry turned his attention towards negotiating the precarious route across the wooden boards and onto the relatively sturdiness of the tavern barge. It was painted a rich green which was peeling but still shined and reflected in the water below. A tall metal lamp housed a sign which hung above the tiny double saloon doors. The sign was a picture of a fat woman with the reddest cheeks Harry had ever seen and a naughty wink in her left eye as well as a shiny smile with one black space where a tooth should have been.

This must be Ruby Lou and as Harry studied the sign Ruby tipped the white sailors cap which covered her long frizzy red hair and winked at Harry. She then threw her head back and laughed a cackling but friendly laugh which could only signify a witch. She then fixed her smiling gaze upon Harry and said. "Harry Potter eh? Who'd have thought that the great Harry Potter would travel all the way back in time to pay a visit to dear old Ruby Lou? Climb up here and give us a kiss, Harry!" And she threw back her hair and laughed again. Harry didn't quite know why but he felt quite flustered by her advances, even though she was just a tavern sign, and he quickly edged past two very ancient looking wizards who were leaning on the barge's painted prow railings and talking in secret whispers. Harry pushed the swinging doors and soon found himself in the Ruby Lou Pub.

At first glance the Ruby Lou was a tiny affair. There were four tables, more benches really, fixed along the curving walls of the boat. Stools were placed in fours along the inside of the benches. There were perhaps sixteen people sitting on these. When Harry entered, only a few raised their gazes from their whispered conversations to examine the newcomer before returning to their hushed banter. Harry could see no bar in this room but noticed a small curtained door at the far end of the room and walked towards it, pulling aside the crimson and shabby velvet curtain and stepping through into the next room. This was very similar to the first. In this room, a number of people were playing wizard chess and there were occasionally exclamations of either glee or disappointment as a shabby pawn was crushed by a bishop in a diagonal swipe or a pawn was beheaded by a knight. Harry also saw galleon coins exchange hands as bets were won and lost at a table where two glowing fireflies were racing along in the shimmering air.

Harry could still see no bar though and continued through the narrow space, past another red curtain into yet another room, then another and another - Harry found himself forced to squeeze apologetically through a room packed with witches drunk on samphire brandy, a room where an excited wizard was telling a story about a giant from York.

The wizard was standing precariously on his cloak tails waving his tankard at his frowning listeners. "I tell you, he told me he was leaving for a big conference of giants on the Continent. Now that is a bad sign, my friends, a bad sign, I say."

Though interested in the conversation, Harry didn't have time to stop and listen so he passed on through this room and into the next, through yet another red curtain.

Harry must have passed by over a hundred people, through more than twelve rooms before he finally reached the small bar at what must have been the far end of this strange barge. A tiny man, in a red and blue overall with a huge red handlebar moustache greeted him.

"Evenin' young fella, what can I get ya?"

Of course, this was a wizarding boat, so it's impossible length (Harry estimated it to be more than 50 yards) was explained by the space-borrowing spell. Harry had heard about it from - Hermione , of course.

It was possible, through some very complicated magic to "borrow" space from a part of the world that was uninhabited and likely to remain so. Strict rules governed such space-borrowing and a whole part of the Ministry of Magic was dedicated to administering the processes of identifying "unrequired space" - ensuring it was Muggle-free, and ensuring that the space was genuinely required. A borrowed space lease was signed and space provided, particularly in cities such as London, where wizarding folk required more space than was generally available in place where keeping a low profile was paramount. In the future, in Harry's time the space-saving sector would be privatised and borrowed-estate agents would spring up everywhere trying to sell or lease space to whoever needed it. During the 1980s, without proper regulation, all kinds of problems would arise. For if a Muggle accidentally stumbled upon a place where space had been, he or she would suddenly be transported and appear in the space where it had been borrowed "to". A Muggle might suddenly appear in a wizards extra toilet or in a spare bedroom, or a cupboard. In worst cases a Muggle might appear in a secured room or chamber where a wizard had buried or hidden something, a crock of gold for example. The wizard might not visit that place for many years and would be shocked to find a Muggle skeleton, still dressed in a pin stripe suit, its bony fingers still clutching the charmed door handle. In the 1970s, these unscrupulous space dealers would steal space from remote parts of the sea. In order to prevent water from flooding the newly implemented areas, charms would be created to created genuine "spacelessness" from where the space had been stolen - a real void. During one particularly high demand year, so much space would be stolen that entire ships would be lost and one place would be nicknamed the Bermuda Triangle. Little did the shipping companies or Muggle Governments know that these mysterious waters where yachts and boats were simply vanishing, were now playing host to larger living rooms, bigger gardens, extra laundry facilities, and even extra drinking room for a wizarding tavern built as a barge on a London canal!

"A butterbeer please" said Harry.

"Right away young sir," said the barman. "Might I interest you in a Ruby Lou Butter Special?"

"What's that?" asked Harry?"

"Delicious, that's what it is." replied the barman.

"Thank you" said Harry, infected by the broad toothless grin of the barman. "I'd love one."

A few moments later a frothing tankard was placed upon the bar. The liquid was a deep shade of red. The barman watched Harry as he lifted the cup to his lips and tasted his first ever Ruby Lou Butter Special.

It was butterbeer, just as Harry liked it. Then it was strawberry butterbeer. Then cherry butterbeer. Then redberry butterbeer, and then red apple butterbeer. Then strawberry again. As soon as Harry thought of a red fruit, the butter beer tasted just like it! Before he had realised it, Harry had drained the whole tankard!

"Delicious!" marveled Harry. "Wonderful!"

The barman was clearly pleased, nodding knowingly, and pulled Harry another. "Thank you, young sir. For those fine words, here's another - on the barge, as we say! You'll not find a Ruby Lou Butter Special anywhere in the world except here on the Ruby Lou herself. Others have tried to copy it but that's part of the great spell cast by Ruby Lou herself over a hundred years ago! As soon as you try to make one off this boat, or as soon as you take one of these off this boat, you try it ! Just you try it! You get tomato butterbeer! or red pepper butterbeer ! or red chilli butter beer ! Or even beetroot butterbeer. That Ruby Lou, she was one hell of a witch!"

And the barman bellowed a laugh that was so infectious that Harry forgot his troubles for a few moments, broke into a giggle and took another long and heavenly sip of the lovely brew.

Harry promised himself that, if he ever succeeded in getting back to his own time, he would travel to this part of London, and pay a visit to the Ruby Lou Pub.

Suddenly an owl appeared as if from nowhere. It had apparently been perched, on the low timber roof beam of the barge. Its wings covered a large part of the boat's width before it settled its claws upon a crystal ball which stood on the far end of the bar. Harry noticed how the large clear ball swirled into a maelstrom of rainbow colour then suddenly came to life with pictures. The first picture was of the entrance to the barge. But this picture soon changed with a swirl of purple on angry green before settling upon an image of the first room of the pub. A wizard was looking into what must have been another crystal sphere in that room, and seemed to be speaking.

Harry could just about hear him ask for two straight butterbeers and a double shooting-star sherbet with ice meteors. The owl immediately and expertly took off from the bar, picked up three drinks ably poured by the barman and with them he flew up to the roof and through a round, owl-sized hole high up on the far wall obviously delivering the drinks to the relevant room far at the other end of the boat. In just a few moments he was back with three empty glasses which he flew over to a bowl of soapy water in the corner behind the bar, deftly dropping the glasses in, and before flapping back to his perch, leaving a scrubbing brush and a towel, obviously charmed, to expertly wash them up, though for a moment the brush and the dish cloth seemed to be more interested in a playful water fight than serious cleaning. "Stop that!" yelled the barman, the two wash tools seemed to stop in mid-air for a second as if to attention, before reluctantly getting back to work.

The barman indicated the owl with a jerk of his thumb. "That's Matchwood. Used to be a Master's owl at Hogwarts. Very old now, retired when the master died. Lucky to get him. Didn't want to sit on some perch and waste his twilight years away. Found him hovering above Diagon Alley, right outside the Leaky Cauldron. We struck up a sort of.. friendship. He likes the work and gets his feed, though every night he disappears off into the London night. No idea where he goes to. But each morning, he always comes back. Best waiter a landlord could ever have. Never dropped a glass in four years!" As if he could hear what the barman was saying from his perch in the barge roof, Matchwood hooted a croaky approval and preened himself proudly if a little haughtily.

"Now" said the barman, "you look like someone who is looking for something... or someone?" The barman looked at Harry expectantly. "I am right, ain't I. Got a bit o' gypsy bloody in my blood line. Still a bit o' the old mind-reading skill in me. So, me fine fellow. How can Enrico Rose be of help to ya?"

The barman - Enrico - had a warm, friendly smile that made Harry feel welcome and safe, reminding him of the landlord of the Leaky Cauldron. He knew immediately he could trust this man and Harry didn't hesitate to speak the password. "Tea leaves."

"Indeed" said Enrico Rose, rubbing his chin. "I think I get your drift, young sir!"

He bent down and reached under the bar counter and spoke a few, barely audible words, one of which included "Revello". When he stood back up, Enrico Rose was holding the Box of Time. He smiled and proffered it to Harry.


	20. Chapter 20

**Harry Potter and the Golden Sovereign**

As told to Ian Postre

Disclaimer: This story is fanfiction. No financial benefit will be gained from the sharing or reproduction of this story. All characters and worlds described are the property of J.K Rowling. All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author.

The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Chapter 20**

Two hours, and a lot of walking later, Harry was back in Simon Potter's room, helping him to clear up, with the aid of his wand. Simon had heard the whole account of Harry's encounter with the Order of the Eagle. He looked at Harry, shaking his head and kept apologiding. "If I'd have known Harry, I'm truly sorry..."

"It's okay, Simon. Really. It's okay."

But now it was time for him to return to his own time. It was time for him to say goodbye to his great great uncle.

Simon, who had been turning the Box of Time in his hands offered it to Harry.

Harry paused. He felt a sudden urge to take at look at this London of 1868 just once more. "I think I would like to step onto one of your streets one final time, this time without fear." said Harry. "I'll be back in a few moments."

Simon nodded and smiled. He understood. It was about leaving with a good impression. He liked Harry even more for that. Harry walked across to the door, pulled it open, stepped out, gently closing the door behind him. It was nearly ten o'clock in the evening..

As Harry stepped out into the busy city street, the noises of Victorian London met him from all sides, different from those sounds of the London of his time. The clip-clopping of horses was everywhere and the absence of car and bus engines were conspicuous by their absence. There was less of an electric hum, less of the mass of feet being applied to accelerator pedals. There was also less light. Things in a way seemed more grey, the colours less garish; yet it also felt more alive, somehow more real than the neon of his London. The London at the other end of a later century – his century, with all its technology and computers, seemed somehow more … more "Muggle". This London was a place in which the wizarding world was more at home, could move around more freely and easily, whose attire was more at ease with the patchwork surroundings. Harry had only been here for a short time and he wondered if he'd miss it.

As he turned left and walked along the street on which Simon Potter lived, Harry was suddenly knocked aside by a man, roughly dressed, unshaven and reeking of alcohol. Harry fell backwards into a stone wall and staggered, winded. In the few seconds in which this had taken place, he had instinctively whipped out his wand and prepared to defend himself. The man looked at Harry, eyeing his wand in consternation, transfixed for just a moment. In that short pause, Harry noticed the man was clutching a handbag, sequinned with purple braiding.

"Stop! Thief!" came a voice at the other end of the street. Without moving the aim of his wand, Harry looked down the street to see a woman in a purple dress, clearly not a Muggle, pointing at the robber who had clearly snatched her bag. In almost the blink of an eye Harry uttered one word as his wand was fixed on the thief. "Stupefy!" and the man fell to the ground. He quickly stowed his wand as the man lay on the floor, letting go of the handbag and starting to gibber and dribble with an inane grin forming on his face. Harry was shocked at himself. He'd never used that spell before and had only heard Hermione mention it from a book she'd read, yet somehow it had come, almost instinctively to his lips. Harry darted into a nearby alley and was soon out of sight just as the woman caught up with the fallen criminal. She looked at him, half confounded, half relieved and bent down to retrieve her bag.

"May I?" came a nearby voice. Then, almost in a whisper. "Accio handbag!" and the handbag flew up into his hands. He was tall, handsome, perhaps in his thirties with a shock of thick, chaotically arranged black hair, rather like Harry's. Harry peered around the corner of the alley wall. The man was handing the handbag to the woman with a smile and seeing she was alright.

"That was very quick and astute work, sir" the lady was saying, meeting his twinkling eyes with a warm look of her own.

"Well, I'd dearly love to claim it was I who had felled this cutpurse. But it wasn't. All I can claim is the courtesy of handing you your bag." The young man smiled.

"Then, who.."? The woman looked up the street in the both directions, seeking her saviour and Harry melted into the shadows of the alley as the man spoke again.

"Well, if you are truly alright, I wonder if you'd wait a few moments while I call a policeman and we'll have this blaggard carted off to Newgate. I'm afraid I'll need to take a short statement. Detective sergeant Potter at your service, Miss. Michael Potter.

"Delighted to meet you Mr Potter. And pray tell me, what is a wizard doing in the police service?" The woman smiled behind a half-frown.

"Now that Miss, is a bit of a long story..."

"Well, Master Potter", the woman continued, brushing a stray golden curl from her eyes. I'd be very interested to hear it..."

"Come on Harry."

Harry jumped, turned and met the eyes of Simon Potter. "Time to go Harry." Simon reached into his inner jacket pocket and took out the black box. Then he knew the time had come. "Goodbye Harry. I think your task is done. Whatever it was. I'll miss you. But it has to be now. Now is all we have."

Harry reached into his pocket and took out the golden sovereign, holding it in his right hand, feeling its coolness, his ticket through time, back to a different London.

"Well, bye then Simon." said Harry, smiling up at his great, great uncle. You really are a great, great great Uncle!"

Simon blushed.

"I think you know what to do Harry." Simon took Harry's left hand and shook it firmly.

"Yes".

It was indeed time to leave. "Simon. That man. He said his name was Potter. Is he...?"

"A relative. Yes, Harry. But now, is the time! Harry, seize the moment. Now!"

Harry looked at the coin and then at Simon, meeting his smile with one of his own. He inserted the coin into the slot and, once again, the box began to grow...


	21. Chapter 21

**Harry Potter and the Golden Sovereign**

As told to Ian Postre

Disclaimer: This story is fanfiction. No financial benefit will be gained from the sharing or reproduction of this story. All characters and worlds described are the property of J.K Rowling. All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author.

The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Chapter 21**

It was nearly time for bed as the Gryffindors relaxed by the fire in the common room. Harry and Ron were immersed in a particularly violent game of Wizard Chess which Harry was losing. His pawns lay all over the board, dramatically clutching sword wounds and other horrific injuries and making over-dramatic farewell speeches in tiny, whiny voices, when Colin Creevey jumped through the entrance hatch which had just been opened by a yawning Fat Lady. Colin was proudly clutching a small slip of paper which he presented to Harry. "Hi Harry" said Colin. I was just passing Professor Dumbledore's office when he gave me this message for you." Colin continued to stand there staring, pleased as punch, at Harry, as if he was waiting for a medal or a pat on the head. Harry didn't have a medal, and patting Colin on the head felt too much like patting Fang. So he reached forward, took the message and patted Colin once on the forearm.

"Thanks, Colin", seemed to be enough to send Colin up to his dormitory with a whoop of delight and satisfaction. His looked at the departing boy and thought of Archie.

Ron looked at Harry and shrugged: Some kids are easily pleased."

Harry watched, bemused, as Colin leapt the stairs, two at a time, all the while chatting to himself that he wished he'd captured the whole thing on camera.

Hermione, who was reading from A Literary History of Giant Poetry: From Mumbles to Syllables, looked up from her book and asked: "Well, aren't you going to read it?"

Harry glanced at the message and read the short sentence written on it, signed in the unmistakable flourish of Albus Dumbledore's signature.

He looked up at an expectant Ron and Hermione.

"Well?" inquired Ron.

"Unless you'd rather no say," Hermione added quickly.

"It doesn't say much. 'Tuesday evening, at 7 in my study, if convenient." Harry replied.

"If convenient?" blurted Ron. "Like Yeah, sorry Professor D, I'd love to chat to the world's greatest Wizard but I've got other plans!" Ron winked knowingly at Hermione.

Harry grinned and tucked the message into his pocket where, for a moment, he thought he felt the golden sovereign again, resting there as it had done throughout his adventure in Victorian London. Of course, it wasn't there. It was in the Box of Time, now back at Samuel Tockley's. Tockley would have retrieved it from the box and stowed it away somewhere very safe. But the sudden memory gave Harry the thought, he wasn't sure why, that it was about the golden Sovereign that Dumbledore wanted to speak to him.

As he made his way up to bed, Harry realised, he was quite looking forward to his chat with Dumbledore on Tuesday night. What did Dumbledore know?

The day and time arrived. Harry was settled opposite Dumbledore in his study.

He had related the whole story, which had taken nearly an hour and Dumbledore had listened patiently to every word, occasionally asking a question. And now it was Harry who was asking questions, hoping the headmaster would help him make sense of the whole affair.

"Professor? The place where my parents were." began Harry, "Was it real? It felt completely real while I was there. Was it a parallel universe? My cousin Dudley used to talk about those. He used to watch films about space and time travel and play computer games. He said one of them was based on a real idea that there are millions of parallel universes, each one just a bit different from the last one."

Professor Dumbledore looked hard at Harry for a moment and his eyes seemed to smile, as if he were enjoying a little joke. "Parallel universes. Perhaps Harry. Alternative realities – alternaties I have heard them called. I've even heard of our universe called the Multiverse which would seem to lend the notion some possibility."

Harry continued to look at Dumbledore, hoping for afuller answer than that.

Seeing this, Dumbledore continued. "In truth, Harry, I do not believe so. In all of my years on this particular version of our world, I've never had any tangible evidence that there are an infinity of Dumbledores or Professor Snapes in our reality. But, what indeed, is reality? That's not a question for this evening I suspect."

Harry still wanted a clearer answer. "But, Professor, my parents were real. That world was a real as this one. I believed all of it... until the end. Until I saw myself in the mirror. Professor?" Harry waited for Dumbledore to reply.

"Illusion, Harry. I suspect it was an illusion, not an alternative world. As you will have well learned, I hope, from your encounter with the Mirror of Erised, what we desire in the deepest region of our heart, is often the thing that can be most used to send us into illusion. You, I fear, Harry, would have fallen into an illusion that would have, indeed, seemed as real to you as this world. And that illusion could have lasted a lifetime. You remember the tunnel fo time? And you may have heard an old man whisper a warning?" Dumbledore winked at Harry. The tunnel of time is most perilous because it is a place where everything we can imagine is shown to us, and we can easily be drawn in, pulled into madness. I shall be having words with my dear old friend, Samuel Tockley. Excited as he still is by Time and all its mysteries, he should have allowed a young boy into that box. You showed remarkable self-control, Harry. Theh again, I see now, that your trip through the dangers of time was, in one sense, inevitable. Simon Potter, as I am sure he told you, called you because he foresaw doing it."

"Yes," said Harry. still not making much sense of what he was hearing. "Simon said he was simply acting on his own prophecy."

"Indeed. And all of that led to you being offered an illusion that could have distracted you and taken you from our history permanently."

"Permanently"? exclaimed Harry, a feeling of shock rising in him.

"Permanently. If you had succumbed to an illusion that spoke to your deepest wishes, you would have allowed Voldermort to achieve his goal of, how shall we say, taking you out of the equation. Fortunately," Dumbledore continued, "even illusions can have flaws and you were able to finally shatter that particular one. Your mother's love for you in _this_ world, at this time, was utterly real to you, and you managed to use that love to penetrate the illusion that Voldermort had tried to spin around you. You saw a different, older, possible you, who was happy with his family. And yet, in that moment, you also remembered yourself in the hear and now, and the Harry Potter in the here and now is the Harry Potter that your mother gave her life to save.

"Voldermort, though not in body, was able to project a large part of his soul back into time. There is some connection between you I believe he used to follow you to that exact time and place. But he had to use people there to do his bidding; he wasn't strong enough to manifest physically except as a kind of shade, a ghost if you like. So he made contact with Order of the Eagle, an order I am glad to say no longer exists in our time. Actually it was ended in 1917 in a terrible battle in France. Though it found a newer and more devastating home in Germany in 1933. There the idea of "pure blood" found a more ready audience. But no more of that I think."

Dumbledore reached into a drawer in his desk and took out a sealed letter. The crimson wax seal was still in tact and Harry saw his name embossed in the wax.

Dumbledore offered the letter to Harry. "This, Harry is for you. It was apported from 1868 from your great, great uncle Simon. Read it at your leisure."

Harry took the letter, broke the seal and unfolded the cream, vellum paper. "I'll read it aloud if that it alright, Sir." said Harry.

Dumbledore smiled. "As you wish Harry."

Harry read the letter in a quiet but steady voice.

_"Dear Harry. I trust you are safely home. I thank you for effecting my rescue. I am writing this letter, enjoying a Ruby Lou special, on the barge from Enrico Rose. He sends his warm wishes. The Ministry has closed down the Order of the Eagle and thoroughly searched their premises in London. Two of the Order you met are now awaiting trial but the woman managed to flee and has gone into hiding. The goblin also vanished. I would apologise for calling you to my time for what may have seemed to you to be a dangerous and ultimately purposeless journey. Not so, Harry. I have since discovered the task that you did accomplish that may well have safeguarded the future for you, your friends, perhaps the entire wizarding and even Muggle world._

_"It seems Harry that you were needed for a very specific task. Sometimes it is the smallest act that can cause the greatest benefit or calamity. It seems that, when you stepped out of my door, just before you left this Time, you prevented a theft. A certain Michael Potter, a detective working both at the Ministry of Magic and in the Muggle police, who happens to be my second brother, was on his way to visit me when you stumbled into a theft and he was able to step in and give help to a certain Joella Clayfold. They were married within the year. They gave birth to a son, Charlus. Charlus married Dorea and they had a son, James, your father. James and Lily, of course, gave birth to you. Without your seemingly insignificant intervention Harry, you would not have been born in order to enact it! Such is the nature of time and the web of consequences it weaves through the years, back and forth, to and fro. So, thank you for coming, Harry. And thank you for achieving your task. I wish you a happy future. I sense much adventure lies ahead for you. You ancestor and friend, Simon Potter. P.S. I bumped into a small friend of yours called Archie. He says, say wotcha to Harry Potter._"

Dumbledore was listening intently as Harry looked at him.

"Well done, Harry." said Dumbledore. "Though time travel is extremely illegal, I think, on this occasion, we shall overlook the crime. But one thing I must ask you is to forget. You will have to forget all of this - for the time being. This is a story better left untold until you are, perhaps older. Playing with Time is a very dangerous business and your connection to Voldermort is what enabled him to trace you in the Past. I would rather be cautious and not give him possible access to what has happened here. I hope you will agree. But I will not insist. A small spell will wipe this adventure from your mind until you are older. I propose that memory of it will begin to appear, as part of all of your memories, in the year, 2014. Then you will be old enough and more than ready to share it if you wish, or to add it to the many memories of adventure I am sure you will collect in the intervening years. Do you agree, Harry? I have also asked your friends Ron and Hermione and both agreed as well. Each of them will be up to see me this evening.

Harry trusted Dumbledore. "Yes, Professor, whatever you think is best."

"Good" said Dumbledore. "And thank you. It is a simple matter. He took out his wand and pointed it at Harry's forehead. "Oblivate Specificio!"

"There" said Dumbledore. "Now you may go back to your common room."


	22. Chapter 22

**Harry Potter and the Golden Sovereign**

As told to Ian Postre

Disclaimer: This story is fanfiction. No financial benefit will be gained from the sharing or reproduction of this story. All characters and worlds described are the property of J.K Rowling. All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author.

The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Chapter 22**

_Through the swirling and dancing darkness of dreams, the boy sits astride a broomstick, which is plummeting at dangerous speed towards the swaying trees of a forest. There is nothing he can do to stop the descent towards certain death. All around him are witches on antique broomsticks of their own, diving and darting around the boy as he dives unwillingly downwards. The ground is looming closer now with tree branches sharp as swords waiting to greet him, like bony hands reaching upwards, reaching towards him. The boy smiles as he pulls back on his broom at the last moment and he swerves skilfully away. He spies something golden in the hands of one of the witches and surges towards it. The witch cannot turn away in time as the boy deftly grabs the snitch, holding it high in his hand. The witches melt away and the scene is replaced by a Quidditch Pitch, a stadium and the eruption of a thousand cheers. The voice of Dean Thomas echoes through the cheers: "Potter has got the snitch! Gryffindor win the match!"_

Harry woke up, punching the air and shouting "Yes!"

Ron turned over in his bed and moaned. "Shut up and go back to sleep, Harry!".

_The End_


End file.
